Inheritance Tax
by InitialLuv
Summary: McCormick must face his past to make decisions about his future.
1. Chapter 1

I had so much fun writing my first story that I'm a little obsessed, now. Each chapter of this fic varies in length, as I posted them while in the process of writing (as opposed to writing the whole story at once - I'm not that patient or dedicated). I wanted to give this story the time it deserved, so it took me nearly a year to complete it. Sometime in the future, I may repost the whole story as one or two **long** chapters. Although I like the multi-chapter format when I read a fic - it's easier to find my place if I have to stop reading a story and come back to finish it later.

Thank you to everyone who gave my first **_Hardcastle and McCormick_** story _(Hidden Scars)_ such positive reviews. I am thrilled to be able to share my ideas and vision. I also now have a "missing scene" story ( _Song and Dance_ ) a few "tag" stories, some holiday stories, and several others.

Enjoy _Inheritance Tax_!

 **-ck**

 _Disclaimer: I do not own these beloved characters, and I am writing for fun and feedback, **not** for profit._

* * *

 ** _Inheritance Tax_ by InitialLuv**

 **Chapter One**

Martina Rivera sat silently at her daughter's bedside, gripping the girl's slender hands a little too tightly. She wasn't sure if the firm grasp was to stop her hands from shaking, or if she was trying to keep Olivia's trembling hands still. Maybe it was both.

As the doctor continued, Martina realized she had missed at least a full sentence of his diagnosis. She looked away from Olivia's confused and scared face, to the calm, collected face of her mother. Sandra Rivera listened intently to the doctor, nodding her head at times. Martina was extremely grateful for that. Her mother was stoic, practical, and unflappable. While Martina had been floundering in fear and grief, Sandra had started asking direct questions. Having worked in the medical field most of her career, Sandra knew the questions to ask. Martina was an elementary school teacher. There wasn't much in her career that she could draw off of to help her understand her daughter's illness.

"Ms. Rivera?"

It was a moment before Martina realized Dr. Shire was speaking to her. Most of the doctors and nurses that they had come to know in the past two months no longer referred to her as "Ms. Rivera" and her mother as "Mrs. Rivera" – it was just too confusing. They were now Martina and Sandra. Or Mom and Grandma, depending on how familiar the doctor or nurse had become. But Dr. Shire was the nephrologist who had recently been referred by Olivia's pediatrician, and he hadn't yet been clued in to the possible name confusion.

"Y-yes?" Martina stammered. "Doctor?"

"I was saying that changing Olivia's diet should also help." When Martina didn't answer, the doctor continued slowly. "There will still most likely be a need for medication, but when we see how she responds to appropriate lifestyle changes, we will be able to determine what to do next."

Olivia suddenly spoke up from her hospital bed. "I feel better, you know. When the antibiotics work, I always feel better. I don't understand." Her voice started to quiver, and she pulled her hands away from her mother so she could wrap her arms tightly around herself. "I don't know what these 'cyst' things are, or where they came from."

Dr. Shire studied the small family, wondering just how much farther he should get into his discussion. It was obvious that both the mother and daughter were overwhelmed, but the grandmother seemed to be grasping the situation, and both sides of the possibilities.

He stood up now, deciding it would be best to give the family time to digest the diagnosis before he got into the particulars. Another hour, give or take, wouldn't hurt the girl, now that they knew what was wrong and could stop chasing symptoms. Now they had a place to start, and while it might not have been the best diagnosis for the child, it was better than not knowing.

"I'll give you some time," he said, "There's more we need to talk about, but not right away."

Sandra looked up at the doctor, and then at Martina. Dr. Shire could see from the solemn expectation on her face that she had probably already made the connection.

And then the doctor left the room, and they were alone.

"Mom?" Olivia said. "Grandma? I don't _understand_. It's my kidneys, but it's not diabetes?"

Martina looked at her mother. "I think I missed some things myself, Mom. When he started talking about dialysis –"

"That's only if the other options don't work," Sandra responded. "Well, at least now. Even with medication and changing her diet and knowing what to watch out for. . ." The older woman suddenly looked lost, and it truly scared Martina. "It's progressive," Sandra said softly. "There's a lot that we can do to try to keep her healthy, but as she gets older, dialysis could be in her future."

Sandra didn't divulge that if dialysis _was_ in the future, that the conceivable next step could be a search for a matching kidney donor. It was too early to talk about that, or to talk about how the cysts could also develop in Olivia's liver or pancreas. Not to mention the other possible complications. . . Martina and Olivia were upset enough without hearing the glass half-empty viewpoint.

And then there was the doctor's ominous statement about having "more to talk about." Now that was something Sandra was fairly positive Martina didn't know; that Olivia's diagnosis had reaching implications.

Polycystic kidney disease was not a common childhood illness, which was one of the reasons it had been so difficult to get a correct diagnosis for Olivia. The young girl's pediatrician had been puzzled by Olivia's easily-bruised skin, abdominal and back pain, and recurrent urinary tract infections. The possible diagnoses had ranged from leukemia to juvenile diabetes to a term called a "sponge" kidney. When PKD had finally been confirmed with an ultrasound, Olivia's pediatrician had tried to explain that it was a "good" thing, that they finally knew what was happening and they knew what to do next.

But even though Sandra's medical background was as a maternity nurse, she was informed enough to recognize PKD for what it was. It wasn't just a mountain Olivia would now have to scale; it would also soon be a trial for Martina.

PKD was most commonly genetic, inherited. It was also typically adult-onset, with symptoms usually not becoming apparent until the afflicted individual was in their thirties or forties.

Sandra had concluded that Olivia had inherited this disease from Martina. Martina was thirty-five; the older woman wondered how soon her daughter would start to experience clear symptoms.

All Sandra knew for sure was that both her granddaughter's and her daughter's health had been threatened in one fell swoop.

* * *

Mark McCormick had not realized how much he'd missed this.

He was perched on the edge of the front of the judge's pickup, his hands dirty with grease. He was clad in torn jeans and a sleeveless tee-shirt. An old bandana was tied around his head, blocking the sweat from getting into his eyes. He looked about as far as possible from a second-year law student. And he loved it.

Okay, fine, he had a certain fondness for law school, too. He'd known it was something he'd wanted to do, and do well, but he hadn't known how much it would affect him. Attending the lectures, researching in the library, working in study groups, arguing moot court. . . It had stealthily brought out a studious, fixated side of his personality that had surprised him. He had begun drinking in the information, almost unable to quench his thirst, and sometimes even Hardcastle hadn't seemed to have enough knowledge to keep him satisfied. Mark couldn't recall a time in his life when he'd been so obsessive about something that was actually positive.

But now that his second year finals were complete – giving him a good two months before the next semester started – it was like time had begun to tick backwards. The responsible shirts and slacks (and sport jackets, for moot court) were relegated to the back of the closet. Tee-shirts and jeans again became his wardrobe. He was able to watch a full late-night John Wayne feature, which had been nearly impossible during the school term, when he'd retire to the gatehouse early to make sure he was well-rested for his morning classes or study groups. He was also taking back some of his chores at the estate – he'd never really approved of the lawn service the judge had hired, anyway. The supposed professional service left ruts when they mowed in the softer grassy areas, and they had pruned one of the judge's Peggy Lee hybrid tea roses almost to its death. McCormick had barely been able to salvage it. He had first splinted the damaged portion with bamboo skewers he got from the nursery, and then had wrapped the entire section with electrical tape. Hardcastle had been displeased, to say the least, when he saw McCormick wrapping the black tape around the broken stem, but it had worked. Not two weeks later, the hybrid was blooming, almost fully resurrected. Mark felt a certain pride in that, too. Maybe not as much pride as he felt after getting that 3.8 GPA at the end of his first year, but. . . It was a different kind of pride, one that was more brawn than brains.

Who would have ever guessed he'd have them both?

"Judge, can you hand me the three-quarter wrench?"

"The tool box is right next to you, sport."

McCormick glanced over and saw the red tool box was indeed sitting next to him, balanced precariously on the edge and in danger of falling into the engine. Mark was practically sitting in the engine himself, one leg folded under him while his other foot rested on the wheel well.

"You know, this is your truck – you can't even be bothered to assist?

Milton C. Hardcastle glowered at his young friend. _Assist, ha. More like be set up as a standing joke,_ he thought to himself. He had decided long ago that McCormick considered himself world-renowned in the art of diagnosing and tuning up engines, and that any "assistance" he gave would eventually be derided. He'd hand the kid the wrong wrench size. Or he'd give the engine too much gas when directed to crank it up for inspection. And if he offered ideas on what was wrong and how to fix it, McCormick would look at him with a kind of affectionate pity, like "The poor guy, he thinks he's helping."

So the kid could get his own damn tools out of his own tool box.

"Don't go knocking that box of tools into my engine!" Hardcastle ordered, as McCormick began sorting through the box for the correct size wrench. The younger man rolled his eyes, but moved the toolbox back from the edge so it was sitting more securely. After a few moments of silence, the judge moved a little closer to the engine and peered in curiously.

"So what's wrong with it?"

"I've only been checking it out for five minutes, Hardcase. Give me a break."

"What, are you losing your motor head touch? Too many books, huh?"

The words themselves sounded rough, but the sentiment wasn't. Milt was honestly impressed by how McCormick had taken to the law, in the process finding another part of himself that he hadn't known existed. The young man in the business-casual clothes with the backpack slung over his shoulder had looked very little like an ex-con or a former race car driver. The only visible reminder of his past was the Coyote, which was hard to miss on campus. And that was just another reason why Hardcastle felt that pride well up – the kid had started law school with two strikes against him right from the start: his past, and his age. But instead of trying to blend in and hide who he was, he'd driven the flashy hot rod to class. At the same time, he'd begun dressing like an adult, instead of in the goofy clothes his younger classmates were wearing. And he'd aced his Criminal Law class without hardly trying, even holding a pre-exam study session at the estate with a few fellow students. The way the kid had waxed poetic about the tamer parts of his checkered past, keeping the attention of the even-younger kids, had been amusing and a little disconcerting.

But that's what McCormick was, an enigma of sorts. Still a font of information when it came to breaking the law, but now more interested in defending it. Still young enough to tool around in the Coyote, but at the same time realizing that he wasn't twenty-five anymore, and he needed to start dressing like an adult.

The one thing that made Milt realize how much the kid was maturing was when he'd gotten his hair cut. In Hardcastle's opinion it was still too long, but it was probably the shortest he'd ever seen McCormick keep his hair. When McCormick had come home with the fresh haircut Hardcastle had just stared at him until the kid had flushed in embarrassment, mumbled something about wanting to look "more lawyerly" and then had hidden out in the gatehouse.

McCormick lifted one grease-smudged hand and adjusted the bandana headband, transferring grease to his face in the process. He sighed slightly, but it was more of a comfortable sigh than one of distress. He looked around at the wisps of clouds in the sky and smiled.

"Nice day out, huh, Judge?'

Hardcastle stared at him. "'Nice out?' No wonder you can't fix my truck, goofing around looking at clouds!" The judge snorted. "Nice out," he repeated with scorn.

"I've just been inside too much. This is nice – not being cooped up in a classroom or a library."

Hardcastle shook his head wryly. "Well, if you want to be outside more, there's plenty for you to do after you fix my truck. There's hedges to rescue from what the service did to them, there's gutters to clean, you can rake out and re-mulch the flower beds. . ."

"I know the drill, Hardcase." Yet McCormick spoke it lightly, without his patented sarcasm. "And I'll get to everything. I just had to decompress for a little while first. Find the old McCormick." He leaned back over the engine of the truck, humming softly. Hardcastle realized he was smiling in fondness at the kid, and quickly amended it to a frown, hoping that McCormick hadn't seen.

The sound of an unfamiliar engine pulling up the driveway caught the judge's attention, and he turned away from McCormick to see a taxi pulling up.

"Who's that?" Mark asked distractedly, still peering into the engine.

"I dunno. Expecting anyone? Maybe Sonny?"

McCormick looked up at Hardcastle's casual words, glaring. Seconds later, he amended it to a grin.

"What about you? Maybe it's Gerald."

They both ended up being wrong. A woman was climbing out of the taxi, looking around in wonder and unease. Considering that McCormick was presently stuck in a pickup engine, Milt decided he would greet the visitor. As he approached, the woman was speaking to the driver with a look of consternation on her face. He could just hear the words ". . . are you sure this is right?" before he was able to speak.

"Can I help you?"

The woman turned suddenly. She seemed to be in her mid-thirties, with thick dark brown hair pulled back in a loose ponytail. Her clothes were slightly wrinkled, giving the appearance that she'd been wearing them a while. She looked at Hardcastle with indecision, as if trying to figure out how to answer his question. Her response came out in a rush.

"Does Mark McCormick live here?"

Milt nodded, jerking a thumb back at his pickup. "Yup. The grease-monkey's over there."

The woman straightened and looked in the direction Milt had indicated. Her face seemed to blanch a little. Then she was bending down and talking to the driver. When she rose again, the expression on her face was resolute. She began to walk purposefully toward the man working on the pickup. Hardcastle actually had to jog a little to keep up with her.

"Hey, McCormick!"

Mark looked up at his name. He could see the taxi leaving the driveway, and a young woman walking ahead of Hardcastle. He tensed slightly. It was obvious this woman had been dropped off, and by the way she was approaching him. . .

A sudden painful recognition seized Mark, and he felt the wrench slip from his hand. It couldn't be, it had been ten years, it couldn't be her.

But as the woman got closer he realized he couldn't deny her identity. And then she stopped in front of the pickup, shading her eyes to block out the sun, and he lost all composure.

McCormick tried to climb out of the engine, forgetting he was sitting on one leg. When his leg, which had fallen asleep, refused to cooperate, Mark had to grab on to the edge of the truck to keep from falling over backward. Unfortunately, his scrabbling hands bumped the open toolbox, spilling its contents into the engine. McCormick pulled himself up fully in a futile attempt to catch the tool box, and inadvertently hit his head on the raised hood of the pickup. The jarring of the hood caused it to fall, and to avoid getting his hands caught in the slamming hood, Mark threw himself back and ended up in the fall he had tried to avoid. He tried to brace his landing with his hands, and felt pain shoot up both arms and into his shoulders. Even with his hands taking the brunt of the fall, he was unable to prevent a definite jolt to his tailbone.

Both the judge and the woman helplessly watched the comedy of errors, which took place in no more than five seconds.

"What the hell are you doing, McCormick?" Hardcastle asked in exasperation.

McCormick sat on the ground in a daze, wincing at the multiple injuries. He was uncertain of what had just happened. He fought to collect himself, looking up in disbelief at the woman he hadn't seen or heard from in at least ten years.

"Marty?"

The young woman immediately bent down near Mark. "Mark, I'm so sorry, I should have called, and not just shown up like this. Are you all right? Are you hurt?" She reached out hesitantly.

Mark didn't move, didn't take the proffered hand. "Marty," he repeated, still staring. "It _is_ you."

Hardcastle saw he was going to have to advance this reunion. Moving forward, he reached down to take the kid's arm and hoist him up. McCormick let out a slight gasp of discomfort and began to rub the shoulder of the arm Hardcastle had grabbed. Surprised by the exclamation of pain, Milt appraised McCormick carefully. He was fairy sure he hadn't been unusually rough, and so was uncertain of his friend's possible injuries.

"Are you gonna live, kiddo?"

If the scowl McCormick directed his way was any indication, the bumps – and likely eventual bruises – were more of an annoyance than anything else. The scowl was brief, as the kid turned back to the woman looking anxiously between the two of them. McCormick's face softened, and he attempted a proper introduction.

"Uh, Judge, this is Martina Riv—" He stopped, a question in his eyes. "Is it still Rivera?" he asked.

The woman smiled, but averted her eyes a little. "Yes, it is."

"Okay!" Mark returned the smile, and was soon back in introduction mode. "Judge – Martina Rivera. Marty, this is Judge Milton C. Hardcastle."

Hands were shook, pleasantries exchanged. Then the three of them stood in the driveway, waiting for someone to make the next move.

Milt sighed, volunteering again. He looked pointedly at McCormick. "Are you just gonna let her stand out here all day?"

"Oh!" Mark suddenly seemed to realize where they were. "We should go inside and sit down," he agreed, gesturing with a hand. A rather greasy hand.

"Well, maybe I should wash up a little first. Um - uh. . . "

Hardcastle watched McCormick fidget for a few moments. Then he grinned and waved him off. "Go. Get the worst of the grease off - I'll hold down the fort. We'll be in the den."

McCormick returned the grin, turning toward the gatehouse. After a few steps he paused, glancing back at Hardcastle. The grin had been replaced with a wary expression.

"I'll just be a few minutes," he said in a warning tone, and then began to jog to his residence.

* * *

 **Notes for the previous chapter:**

If anyone who reads this has PKD or knows someone who does, and needs to correct my writing, please do! Any mistakes I have made are unintentional.

 **-ck**


	2. Chapter 2

_**Inheritance Tax**_ **by InitialLuv**

 **Chapter Two**

Milt had settled the woman in one of the den's armchairs, asked if she needed any refreshment, and then had sat himself down as well, a bit awkwardly. It wasn't that he was new to meeting the myriad of women in McCormick's life, but two things bothered him about this one: Mark's extreme reaction upon her arrival, and the fact that Hardcastle had never heard the kid utter one word about her. And what made the latter point even more confusing was that it obvious this Martina Rivera was someone important to McCormick. Or had once been someone important.

Hardcastle realized he'd been unintentionally assessing the woman, only becoming aware of it when she shifted nervously in her chair, delicately clearing her throat.

"I'm sure Mark'll be right over," he offered, his voice a little more coarse than he had planned.

She nodded quietly, looking around the room a bit. He saw her eyes rest on the mantle, where Nancy's picture sat, along with the statue of Lady Justice. _That's good._ Then her eyes caught sight of the gun rack on the wall near the doors. _Not such a great reaction there_.

The judge anxiously cleared his own throat, and looked over toward the front door, as if willing the kid to enter.

He was unprepared for the woman's sudden question.

"How is Mark?"

"He's good. Enjoying the break from school." At Martina's somewhat blank look, he continued. "Law school – you knew he was in law school, didn't you?"

It was obvious she hadn't known. Her eyes widened perceptibly, and she straightened in her chair, more alert.

"I. . . wasn't really sure of his arrangement here. I was in a hurry to get here; I didn't have much time to sort it all out."

Milt felt that disconcerted tinge again. _In a hurry? From where? Why?_

"But he's all right?" she asked, and he was a little surprised to hear concern in her voice. "He's. . . feeling okay?"

He found himself assessing her once more, trying to find her angle. "What do you mean? He's fine – careless and klutzy, but fine."

And the kid had been fine.

Well, there had been a few things. Hardcastle frowned slightly as he remembered how worn out Mark had been during the last few weeks of the semester, how he'd often looked pale and peaked. At the time, Milt had dismissed it as stress over his upcoming final exams – he knew McCormick had been studying non-stop. And being shut up in the classrooms and libraries hadn't done much for the kid's usual healthy tan.

But even after his finals were over, McCormick had still been out of sorts. He hadn't been the same challenging opponent on the basketball court, and often seemed distracted or withdrawn. Hardcastle had made a guess for that behavior, as well: he knew Mark felt the additional burden of not disappointing his mentor, and until his final grades arrived, that pressure wouldn't be relieved. It had been a common theme at each semester's end.

Milt knew no matter what the exam results were, there was no way he could be disappointed in the kid. Long before Mark had surprised him with the confession that he'd been secretly attending law school, he'd been proud of the young man. Proud of his loyalty, his resourcefulness, his ability to appraise and act accordingly in most any situation. Proud of the way McCormick had been turning his life around. The fact that he had enrolled in law school was just the icing on the proverbial cake.

Hardcastle was interrupted from his reverie by the noise of the front door opening. McCormick appeared at the doorway to the den, looking slightly less bedraggled. He had on a fresh shirt, had removed the bandana, and had done his best to get the grime off of his hands. But as he stepped down into the den and approached Martina, Milt could see the expression on the kid's face was one of confused apprehension.

"I'm sorry it took me so long," McCormick apologized, looking more at Hardcastle than Martina.

"It's fine," the woman responded, rising to meet Mark. "Are you sure you're all right, though? You fell pretty hard." She reached out again, and McCormick backed away slightly. Hardcastle was momentarily stunned - this was definitely not the kid's usual interaction with attractive women.

"I'm okay," McCormick assured her, then cracked a brief grin as he gestured at the judge. "I get banged up worse than that playing hoops against him one-on-one."

Martina looked at Hardcastle with displeasure. "Is that true? Why would you do that?"

Mark shook his head and held up a placating hand. "Marty, settle down. What are you so worked up about? I mean, you haven't seen me in ten years. I don't think you can really start criticizing me or my friends."

"I'm not – I'm just worried about you –"

McCormick gave a single spiteful laugh. "Right. You were so worried about me I haven't seen hide nor hair of you in a damn decade. Why now? Why are you here, Marty?"

Hardcastle could feel the tension rising and suddenly realized he was in danger of getting hit in the crossfire. He rose, and both Mark and Martina turned from each other to look at him. He tried to think of an excuse to leave.

"Uh, I'm gonna go see if I can salvage my engine, get your tools outta there," he directed at McCormick. His voice was brusque, but as the kid watched him leave Milt angled his eyes back at Martina and nodded, as if to say, _I'll give you your privacy, kiddo_.

Mark waited until the front door closed, and then he looked back at Martina.

"Maybe we should sit down, and you can tell me what the hell's going on."

They sat in neighboring chairs, and Mark pulled his a little to the left so they could face one another. He leaned forward with his arms resting on his knees and his hands clasped together. He regarded Martina with expectation.

She returned his gaze, then sighed and shook her head lightly. "You look – I don't know. The same. But something's different. Something – not. . . I don't know," she repeated.

"Well, you look great," Mark said softly.

She blushed slightly, lowering her eyes. Looking for a way to change the subject, she asked, "Your friend, he – "

"Judge Hardcastle."

"Okay, Judge Hardcastle. He said you're in law school?"

Mark smiled widely. "Just finished my second year about a week and a half ago. Bet that was a surprise, huh?"

"That's it," Martina said, almost to herself. She looked directly at Mark again. "You're happy. I don't think I've ever seen you happy."

McCormick sat up straight, and his face became pensive. "That can't be right."

Martina didn't respond. She absentmindedly fiddled with the strap of her cross-body purse. The silence was so complete that they both could hear the clock on the mantle ticking.

Mark inhaled, then let the breath out slowly. "I never thought about it that way," he admitted. "You were with me during some. . . bad things. But that's how I got through them – you made things a lot more tolerable. Just by being there." He swallowed, looked at a point somewhere past Martina's shoulder. "So, I guess I understand what happened when I called. I mean, I understood why you were done. Too much drama. It's okay."

"That's one of the reasons why I came here. I have to talk to you about that." Martina paused, not sure how to continue, then just plowed ahead. "I didn't know you called."

Mark didn't answer right away. There was a flaw there, he could feel it. He just had to find it.

Martina spoke when he didn't. "I was waiting, hoping you'd call. I thought maybe your roommate hadn't given you the message, maybe you were busy getting ready for a race, I don't know. I was going to call again, I needed to talk to you, but then I thought maybe you _had_ gotten my message and you just didn't want to call me back. I know you were uncomfortable with how we left things – "

He cut her off, bothered by where her ramblings were headed.

"I called."

"I know that now."

"But you didn't know before?" Mark tried to replay the conversation in his head. He'd called long distance to New York on his roommate's dime, ended up speaking to Martina's mother, and the words she had spoken had traveled all the way to Florida to pierce his heart.

The flaw in the argument suddenly became apparent.

"She told me you were done with me. That you and I had different lives, different goals, something like that. That you had 'outgrown' me." McCormick realized he was clenching the armrests of the chair tightly, and that he was developing a tension headache. He tried to relax, but the memories felt so fresh, so raw.

"And it's not like I could've called her on it, y'know? I mean, what, a few months when we were kids? A day or so maybe eight years later?" He laughed, but there was little humor in it. "That's our M.O., huh? Trying to play 'catch up' after too many years.

"But if you didn't know I called – I know you say you do _now_ – that means she didn't tell you. And she didn't tell you because she wanted me the hell away from you."

"Mark – "

"When did she tell you? When did she finally tell you she screwed us over?"

Martina shook her head, her lips pursed tightly together. It wasn't a dismissal of Mark's comment; it was her resistance to telling him the answer.

McCormick stood and started to pace restlessly. "God, I knew she hated me, but to lie like that, to give me that _crap_ and then not even tell you I called – " He momentarily stopped pacing to look at the silent woman. "Unless it wasn't crap. Unless that's what _you_ were going to tell me if I did call, and she just beat you to it."

"No, Mark. . ."

But he was on a roll, angrily pacing again. "No, she didn't tell you I called, because she thought you'd be weak, that you might change your mind if you actually talked to me. But if you thought I hadn't called, that I didn't care that you were trying to get in touch with me, then you'd truly realize what a loser I was and you'd be glad I was out of your life."

"Stop it!" Martina was standing now as well, and she reached out to take one of Mark's arms, to stop him from pacing. He jerked it back with a unconscious gasp of pain.

Martina watched Mark rub his arm where she had grasped it, on the bicep under his shirt sleeve. She gently moved his hand, then tentatively pushed the sleeve up. McCormick pulled away, quickly pushing the sleeve back down.

But Martina had seen the fresh bruises circling his upper arm. It was obvious by the fearful concern in her hazel eyes.

"That's where he grabbed you, to help you up?"

Mark let out an impatient sigh. "He didn't 'grab' me. No, it's an old bruise. Basketball, I told you."

"It looks like the shape of a handprint."

McCormick fixed a stony expression on his face and didn't respond.

"Don't do that to me!" Martina suddenly exploded, and threatening tears made her voice tremble. "Don't lie to me, don't shut me out!"

"Me?" Mark returned incredulously. "I wasn't the one doing the 'shutting out!' You needed to talk to me so bad when you called down to Florida, and then all of a sudden ten years have gone by and _now_ you show up? And I'm just supposed to be understanding, and tell you everything? Okay, you know about law school. Do you know about prison?"

Martina looked at Mark steadily, watching him as he tried to slow his breathing and rein in his temper. When she spoke it was quiet and calm.

"I know you got arrested . . . I tried to reach you a second time. When I called, your roommate told me."

McCormick snorted. "Yeah, he probably couldn't wait to spread the good news." Not wanting to take advantage of Flip's hospitality, Mark had moved into a small apartment with Gary Skipper, another driver. They had soon realized they had little in common, other than the same profession and similar nicknames.

Mark sighed dejectedly. "But I'm not talking about a few days in a lock-up, or even short time in a county jail." He had both on his résumé. "I'm talking about prison." When Martina's gaze turned wary, he elaborated. "Why do you think I'm here, huh? With the judge? Well, I mean, not anymore, my parole's been up for over two years. . .

Martina backed up to the chair she had recently vacated, and slowly sunk into it. She stared at the floor in front of her. She realized she had started nervously fiddling with her purse again, and roughly lifted it over her head to set it aside.

"Marty."

She held up a hand. "I. . . didn't know if he had his information right. And even if he did. . . I thought if I could just see you, then I'd know if, if you were still _you_."

"Marty, you're not making any sense. Who are you talking about?"

She responded flatly, as if he was asking a question he already knew the answer to. "The private investigator. The one we used to find you."

Now it was Mark's turn to return to his seat. "You _what_?"

"Well, you've moved around," she answered practically. "And after Florida I didn't know where to look. It's not like you had relatives you kept in touch with." She looked up distractedly. "I think your cousin got married. I remember seeing an announcement in the paper."

"Yeah?" Mark asked, mild interest mixing with doubt. "Probably a lot of Annie McCormicks in New York."

"There was a picture. I know I only met her that once, at the visitation, but I think it was her."

"We're getting off the subject here, Marty." Mark rubbed his head, trying to beat back the tension headache that was building into a migraine. "You used a private eye to find me?"

She was unapologetic. "His name was Fields. It worked. It wasn't that hard. He knew you."

"Fields?" McCormick repeated, feeling lost.

"Well, he actually knew you through a 'colleague' of his, a man named Baily from Los Angeles?" Mark gave a brief nod, his face tense. Martina continued. "Once we gave him your name, and told him that you used to race and that you had a record. . . He said he remembered you from when this Baily helped you locate someone back home. Fields was Mr. Baily's East Coast - what did he call it? Contact."

"You keep saying 'we.' Who's 'we?'"

Martina took in a breath, then said rather quickly, "My mother and me."

McCormick started to laugh. Martina frowned, crossing her arms in annoyance. Mark saw her discomfort and tried to regain a somber expression, but it didn't hold long before he was snickering again.

"What's so funny?" Martina demanded. "You should know she feels awful about what she did, what she told you when you called. She told me she was almost glad when you – "

Martina broke off, realizing what she had nearly said. But McCormick had figured it out, and the laughter died out.

"She was glad to hear I got arrested. Because that meant she was right about me. She got me away from you just in time. It didn't matter how she did it – me screwing up justified her lying to both of us."

"Yes," Martina replied softly. "But even though she thought she was doing the right thing at the time, Mark, she honestly feels terrible now. She was the one who thought about finding you through the private investigator, she paid for it – "

"Why?"

"Why?" Martina echoed, stalling for time.

"Yeah. Why? Why would she care so much about finding me, about trying to 'fix' things?" Mark shook his head in scorn. "What, is she on her death bed?"

He instantly regretted the smart remark. Martina visibly blanched, and the utter sadness on her face made his stomach twist with painful guilt.

"Oh, God, Marty – I'm sorry, I didn't mean. . . It's not – she's not. . ."

"No. My mother's not the one who's sick."

The implications of her reply hit him like a punch in the gut. Mark didn't think his stomach could take much more of this.

He stared at Martina, but found he couldn't speak.


	3. Chapter 3

**_Inheritance Tax_ by InitialLuv**

 **Chapter Three**

Mark was still dreading Martina's explanation about who _was_ the one who was sick, when the phone began to ring.

Martina looked in the direction of the phone on the desk, and then at McCormick. He waved it off. "The machine will get it." There was no way he was going to pause this current subject in their conversation.

The phone only rang twice before it was unexpectedly picked up in the kitchen, and Mark was alarmed to hear Hardcastle's grumbling voice answering the call. _How long has he been inside? What did he hear?_ Mark's mind ran back through the last things he and Martina had said to each other. It didn't matter that there was more than one wall between the den and the kitchen; Hardcastle was often critical of how much McCormick's voice carried, even when he wasn't having a heated discussion with a former girlfriend.

The judge suddenly appeared, from the direction of the dining room. "Uh, Martina?" He gestured to the phone on his desk. "It's for you."

Martina rose slowly with a bemused expression. Mark stood as well, and faced Hardcastle. Milt nodded his head at Mark and then raised his eyebrows briefly, asking a silent question. McCormick lowered his eyes and shook his head, just as silently.

 _You get things figured out, kid?_

 _Not even close, Judge._

As Martina picked up the phone, Hardcastle headed back to the kitchen to hang up the extension. Mark had an urge to follow, to forget that Martina was in the den, forget that she had ever come to Gulls' Way.

"What is it? Is something wrong?"

Mark turned to look at Martina as he heard the urgent tone in her voice. She was clenching the phone tightly, speaking quietly but with emotion.

"Yes, I found my friend . . . No. . . I don't know. Maybe tomorrow. Are you all right?"

McCormick sat on the arm of a chair, watching and listening with interest.

"Then why did you call? Wait, how did you even get the number?. . . Does she know you're calling long-distance?. . . I _was_ going to call you. . . From the hotel."

Martina's voice had changed from concerned to impatient. Mark recognized the tone as one he'd personally, and frequently, heard from Hardcastle. It was the tone of an older person chastising a –

A child. She was speaking to a child.

She had a kid.

Mark tried to reason it out, to tell himself it wasn't that big a deal. It _had_ been ten years. Did he expect her to just be exactly the same as she was the last time he'd seen her? He sure wasn't the same person he'd been back then. Of course she would have gone on with her life, had a family. Just because he hadn't found that yet, if he ever would, didn't mean that he should begrudge it of her.

"No. I have to go. . . I _will_ call you later. . . Yes, before you go to bed. Listen to your grandmother, okay?

"I love you too, honey."

Martina placed the receiver on the cradle, then looked up to see Mark staring at her.

"You have a kid."

She moved away from the desk, slowly returning to the chair opposite Mark.

"A daughter."

"Wow." McCormick had spoken the word in his head, and it unconsciously left his lips. He smiled in embarrassment.

"Her name's Olivia."

"After your dad – Oliver, right?"

Martina smiled, pleased. "I didn't think you'd remember that."

He shrugged. "I remember you talking about him, the things you said. You know. Like what a great dad he had been, how much you missed him, all that. Stuff like that sticks in here." He jabbed a finger at his head. "Jealously is great for helping remember things."

Martina's eyes drifted away briefly. When she looked back to Mark, she hoped she was composed enough to continue where she had left off.

"Olivia is the one who's sick."

Mark felt a rush of conflicting emotions. Initially he was tremendously relieved that Martina wasn't the one who was ill. _And why did that hit me so hard, when I thought she was? Why do I care so much after ten years?_ The relief was quickly smothered by a sudden guilt, as he realized there was an unknown child who was sick instead. And finally he felt a deep sympathy for Martina, that she had to go through something like this.

"Is it bad?" he asked hesitantly.

Martina gave a sorrowful shrug. "It's – tolerable. She's better than she was. Now that they know what's wrong, and we've finally got a handle on it. She's home, at least. I wouldn't have left New York if she was still in the hospital. She's been there too much the last two months."

"I know what you mean," McCormick muttered softly, another thought that he hadn't exactly meant to say aloud.

Martina grabbed on to the comment, to segue into what she had to say next.

"Mark, your mother. . . "

Mark looked up in surprise at the change of topic. "What?"

"I. . . I wanted to ask you. . ." Martina seemed frustrated, angry. "Damn, I had this all figured out on the plane. How to do this."

"Do what?" McCormick asked, pulling back a little in alarm.

"When she got sick, did you ever hear her diagnosis? What was wrong, why she died?"

Mark felt his breathing quicken. _I should have left when she was on the phone, when I had the chance._

He stared at her now, utter disbelief and a slow anger clouding his features.

"How could you do that?" he asked, his voice icy. "How could you come here – you came all the way here from New York? To ask me _that_? What the hell are you thinking?"

"Mark, it's important."

" _Why_?" He was on his feet again without even realizing it. "Why is it important? She's still dead! It doesn't matter how she died, she died!" He knew he was yelling, and that if Hardcastle was still in the kitchen he could probably hear every word, but he didn't care. "I can't believe you came all this way just to throw that at me, to do that to me!"

Martina wasn't swayed by his anger. "Mark, please. I need to know. If you remember. . ."

He threw his hands up, then waved one at her wildly. "You were there! Your mother was there! Why don't _you_ know?"

She nodded. "I remember it was kidney failure. I just don't know why – if it was diabetes, or something else?"

Mark's shoulders slumped; he suddenly felt drained, done. His head was pounding and his chest felt tight. He wandered over to the couch and sat with his head in his hands. He spoke to the floor.

"I don't know, Marty. I don't know if I ever knew. I didn't want to know. I thought maybe if no one gave it a name, she'd get better. She got better before, the first time she was in the hospital." He looked up briefly, and she could see the barely concealed grief in his eyes.

Martina came to sit next to him on the couch, and took his hands in her own.

"Mark, have you ever heard of polycystic kidney disease?"

McCormick shook his head slightly, thrown by the inquiry. "What?" he asked. "What do you mean?"

"Have you ever heard that term? Or maybe PKD?"

He shook his head again.

"Well, I'm not even sure if they called it that back then," she said practically. "Or even how they diagnosed it, without the technology they have now." After a pause, she spoke quietly, almost to herself. "I bet my mother would know."

"Marty, please, can we just drop this?" Mark pleaded.

"No!" She tightened her grip on his hands, then suddenly realized what she was doing and released them, as if she was afraid of hurting him. She settled for resting her hands lightly on his knees.

"Mark, I think that was what was wrong with your mother. I think she had polycystic kidney disease."

He swallowed, and there was an unexpected lump in his throat. "Okay, fine, Marty, whatever. I'm done talking about this."

"I'm not."

"Well, you're gonna have to talk to someone else about it, because I'm _done_." He made to rise from the couch.

"Mark, stop! I think you have it, too!"

It wasn't exactly how Martina had rehearsed it on the plane, but it got the job done. Mark stopped in mid-rise, his face a mix of alarm and suspicion.

"What are you talking about? Why would you think that?" He sat down slowly, never taking his eyes from her face.

"Because it's inherited. It's genetic – It's not definite that you would have it, if your mother had it, but I still think you do. You probably don't even know it. It – PKD – it doesn't usually start to affect you until you're in your thirties or forties. Or maybe it has started to affect you, but you don't realize it." She made a vague gesture at his arm. "The bruises."

He shook his head in denial. "That doesn't mean I'm sick. And why are you such an expert anyway?" he asked crossly.

"Because that's what Olivia has. She has PKD. And I. . . don't. So that would mean – that would mean she must have inherited it from. . ."

Martina took his hands again, and looked directly into the blue eyes that were so like her daughter's.

"From her father."


	4. Chapter 4

_**Inheritance Tax**_ **by InitialLuv**

 **Chapter Four**

 _What did she say?_ Was he understanding her right? He was a. . . father?

Mark didn't move, didn't react. He barely breathed.

Martina lightly squeezed his hands, and she could feel they were trembling slightly. "Mark? Do you understand what I'm saying?"

The tremble moved steadily up to his shoulders. Then McCormick gave himself a hard shake and pulled his hands away, rising so fast he almost lost his balance.

"No."

"Mark, I'm so sorry –"

" _NO_." He backed away, shaking his head violently. He couldn't do this. He couldn't be the fall guy for her delusions, her fantastic stories. First she's telling him he's got some sort of weird kidney disease, now she's telling him he's got a kid –

Martina stood up from the couch and began to approach him. McCormick continued to back away, running into the mantle and jarring his bruised arm. He didn't even register the pain.

"That's why I called you, Mark. After you went back to Florida, when I found out – "

"Stop it, Marty. Just stop."

"We need to talk about this!"

"There's nothing to talk about!" Mark felt a thickness in his throat as he yelled the words. "You're wrong! Everything – You're wrong about everything!" He was starting to feel light-headed. He clenched his hands so his nails bit into his palms, but the pain was remote and did little to clear his head. He suddenly felt exhausted and ready to drop.

Out of nowhere, a strong hand gripped his shoulder.

McCormick whirled around in reaction, one hand raised in a fist ready to fly.

Hardcastle realized that if the kid had been at one hundred percent, he probably would have delivered a devastating right cross to Milt's face. But Mark was barely on his feet, his face pale and his eyes wild. In the brief moment that it looked like McCormick would actually hit him, Milt could see it seemed Mark barely recognized him.

Milt was able to block the punch, easily catching Mark's approaching fist. Then he took McCormick's other arm, and firmly led him to the nearest chair. " _Sit_ ," he said, but it ended up being unnecessary. Mark dropped into the chair limply, all of his earlier anger and thoughts of escape disappearing. He stared up at the judge with a continued dazed expression.

"Did I hit you?"

Hardcastle waved him off impatiently. "You look like you couldn't hit a fly. What the hell was all the hollering about in here? What's going on?" Milt didn't ask if the younger man was all right, because it was pretty obvious he wasn't. Mark was shaking slightly, and beads of sweat were gathering on his forehead. At least he was sitting down.

Martina had come to kneel in front of McCormick. "Mark. Mark, look at me," she commanded, and Milt heard an authoritative pitch in her voice. He regarded her warily.

McCormick was shaking his head and muttering, refusing to make eye contact. Hardcastle started toward him, but Martina held up a hand. "I've got this," she said confidently.

Mark suddenly lurched forward, wrapping his arms around himself as he started gasping for breath. Martina leaned in, placing her hands on his arms.

"Mark. You're fine. You're going to be all right. You just need to breathe."

"I can't – " McCormick gasped. "Can't breathe."

"What's wrong with him?" Hardcastle's panic was beginning to mirror McCormick's.

Martina spoke to him without taking her eyes off of Mark. "It's a panic attack. He'll be fine. He just needs to get through it."

"Get 'through' it?" the judge repeated. "Does he look like he's getting through it?"

Mark was convulsively swallowing in between gulping breaths. His eyes were tightly closed. He started to murmur a kind of chant. Milt moved closer to hear the words, and was dismayed by what he heard McCormick saying.

". . .Gonna die - Gonna die - Gonna die. . ."

"Mark, you're fine, you're safe. I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere." Martina spoke over Mark's words. "You're fine, you're all right. Calm down and breathe. Listen to my voice."

Martina continued with the affirming words, occasionally rubbing McCormick's arms. She was singularly minded, focused only on Mark.

It was gradual, but Milt could hear with relief that McCormick's breathing had begun to settle. There were still random wheezes, but it seemed he was able to finally draw in a normal breath. After another few minutes some color began to return to the kid's face. And when Mark opened his eyes and blinked several times, the judge could see his eyes were clear and alert.

The whole episode had lasted maybe ten minutes, but to the judge it had felt like an eternity. Outside of a hospital room, he didn't think he'd ever seen McCormick so utterly out of control before. And the fact that he'd had no idea how to help his friend had made Milt feel just as helpless.

Mark was adjusting himself in the chair, rolling his shoulders and shaking out his arms. He looked at Martina with an open, grateful expression.

"I don't know how you do that." His voice shook a little, but otherwise sounded relatively normal. He gave a short exhale. "Thanks."

Martina rocked back on her heels, still regarding Mark closely. "Are you all right?" she asked, and her tone made it seem like she knew better what to expect than he did.

Mark tried for a reassuring smile and was able to produce a small one. "Yeah, I think it's over now. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to. . . " He trailed off as his face contorted in pain. "Uh, maybe not over. Oh, crap." And then he was on his feet, pushing past her to rush out of the den toward the bathroom. He wasn't able to close the door before he began retching. Hardcastle followed behind, closing the door to give the kid some privacy.

The judge slowly returned to the den, then glared at Martina in worried anger. "What the hell's going on!"

"He'll be okay. It's normal – "

"None of this is normal!" Hardcastle erupted. "From the minute you showed up, he's been acting nutty. Now I don't know what just happened, but somebody better tell me what's going on here, or I'll –"

"You'll what, Judge?"

McCormick stood in the doorway of the den with his arms crossed. He looked pale and weary, but otherwise in one piece.

Instead of answering the question, Milt looked anxiously at his friend. "You okay?" he asked quietly.

"Yeah. I'm a little shaky and I need to brush my teeth, but I'm all right." Mark grinned slightly. "It was just a panic attack, Hardcase."

Milt stared at him, incredulous. Mark elaborated, his voice hesitant. "I have had them before. This isn't even the first one you've seen."

"I doubt that." Hardcastle frowned. "I think I would have remembered you going through something like that, kiddo."

McCormick shook his head stubbornly. "You didn't know me. I mean, not really. It was when I got sent up for taking my Porsche. When you sentenced me."

Martina was watching the two men quietly, her eyes slightly round as she listened to the semi-private conversation.

Milt was rubbing his jaw in thought as he considered Mark's statement. "That story you told the kids in San Gabriel, about how you felt like you were gonna bolt, maybe get yourself shot?" McCormick gave a brief affirming nod. "I kind of remember that, how unsteady you looked after the jury came back. But you weren't like _this_."

"Yeah. Well." McCormick didn't explain any further, and his eyes shifted nervously. Then he asked, "You got a spare toothbrush somewhere?"

Hardcastle rolled his eyes. "Check the drawers in my bathroom upstairs. There's probably one from my last dentist visit."

McCormick left the doorway and headed up the staircase. The judge turned again to Martina. His face was hard and uncharitable.

"I want to know exactly what you did or said that got him that way. _Now_."

* * *

 _ **Author's Note** **:**_ The reference to the "kids in San Gabriel" and McCormick's physical reaction at his sentencing is borrowed from _**The Verdict**_ , an awesome fanfic by the talented wordsmith **cheride**. Read it, it's great.

 **-ck**


	5. Chapter 5

_**Inheritance Tax**_ **by InitialLuv**

 **Chapter Five**

Martina regarded Milton Hardcastle coolly, not caring for the tone of his voice or the implication of his words. Yet the longer she studied him, she determined that his face was etched more with worry than wrinkles, and his eyes held more anxiety than anger.

 _He's worried about Mark._

She realized she didn't have a monopoly on that perspective.

Martina moved to where she had discarded her purse, retrieving it to pull out a medium-sized envelope. Wordlessly, she held it out to the judge.

"What's this?"

"Just look." Martina's response was distracted as she glanced in the direction of the doorway, waiting for Mark's return.

Milt gave Martina a long look, then took the envelope and sat down at his desk. He slid his finger under the flap, breaking the seal, and pulled the contents out onto the blotter.

He found himself looking at several different photos. He recognized Martina in many of the photographs. There was also an older woman, maybe in her early sixties, in some of them. But the main subject in all of the photos was a young girl of about eight or nine years old.

One photo was of a birthday celebration. Another was at a beach, or possibly a park. There was also the requisite school photo, the girl grinning in front of an obvious backdrop.

It was the school photo that finally clinched it for Hardcastle. And it wasn't even the girl's curly brown hair or wide blue eyes, although those were things he had definitely noticed. It was the grin. The way it lit up her face and seemed to make her eyes sparkle, even in a photograph. The grin was almost arresting in its honesty and impishness, a contradiction that somehow worked.

Damn it but that grin looked familiar.

He placed the photographs back in the envelope, saving the school photo for last, and then handed it back to Martina.

After a beat, he asked, "How old?"

"She'll be ten at the end of August."

Milt nodded at Martina's answer. He saw that her hands were worriedly fingering the envelope of pictures.

"He didn't know." It was more of a statement than a question. It was true McCormick had never mentioned this woman standing before him, but Hardcastle didn't think he could ever be that tight-lipped about possibly having a child.

"No, he didn't. Things got. . . complicated."

Hardcastle scoffed. "I'm sure," he said sarcastically.

"There's more to it than that, I mean more than him knowing about her. There are things about Olivia – and Mark – that you don't know." At the judge's expectant look, Martina tried to explain. "There's a reason why he got so upset –"

"You think maybe it's because you kept this from him for ten years?" Milt muttered.

Martina had the decency to look abashed, and then a little fearful.

"I just hope it doesn't determine how he feels about her. _None_ of this is her fault."

Martina quieted as Mark's approach was announced by his quick tread down the stairs. He came through the doorway and down the den steps before he picked up on the tension between the judge and Martina. His eyes flickered back and forth as he decided who to interrogate first.

"Judge."

Hardcastle attempted a look of grumpy innocence. "What?" he growled defensively.

"I've been gone maybe five minutes. What happened?"

The judge sighed in surrender, and gestured with his left hand to the chair on the side of his desk. "Why don't you sit down, kiddo. I think you need to see something."

McCormick looked at Martina and found with surprise that she was nodding in agreement with Hardcastle. "Please, Mark. Sit down."

Mark hesitantly came forward to sit in the chair, but apprehension made it impossible for him to relax. He perched on the edge of the seat and waited, staring at the judge. He wasn't aware that Martina was holding out an envelope to him until Hardcastle cleared his throat and nodded in Martina's direction.

Hardcastle kept his eyes on McCormick as he pulled the photographs out of the envelope. He watched closely as his young friend scanned each photo individually before placing it on the edge of the desk and moving on to the next one. There didn't seem to be much reaction on McCormick's face until he got to the school photograph. Milt wondered if McCormick had been stubbornly set in denial until he finally saw the incontrovertible similarities between himself and the girl in the school portrait.

Mark lifted a hand up to his forehead and briefly closed his eyes. When he opened his eyes they were bright with moisture. He hurriedly scrubbed his hand across the tears and swallowed with effort.

Milt looked down at his desktop. He understood the kid's reaction, but he was still uncomfortable with it. This was something so unexpected he didn't know how either of them was going to handle it, but that didn't mean they had to break precedent and get all emotional in front of each other. He knew neither of them would be any use to the other if they couldn't think this through logically and legally.

"How recent are these?" Mark asked, his voice hoarse.

Martina was kneeling by Mark again. "The birthday picture is last August. The school photo is last year's, too. The one at the zoo is a few years old, but I love that picture. She really reminds me of you in that one, the look on her face. She didn't want me to take her picture in front of the monkey cages, she said people would joke that it was a family photo."

Mark broke into an unconscious grin. He found the correct picture in the small pile on the desk, and took a second look. In the photo, Olivia was standing in front of a primate exhibit with her hands shoved in her pockets and a sour expression on her face.

"Well, that was just mean of you," McCormick admonished Martina with a chuckle.

She smiled back, extremely grateful for his sudden change in mood. But then she saw the next photograph that Mark was studying, one where Olivia was on a beach wearing a sunhat. Martina's smile faded.

"That was spring break this year. That was right before she got sick." Martina touched the picture in Mark's hand, running her finger over her daughter's image.

"We spent Easter in the hospital."

Hardcastle straightened abruptly in his chair. He thought back to Martina's comment about how things were complicated.

"Sick?" he echoed. Logic and legal went out the window. "What do you mean? What kind of sick? What's wrong with her, McCormick?"

But instead of explaining, Mark was staring ahead with a look of horror. For an anxious moment Milt thought the kid was going to have another attack, but then McCormick spoke. His voice sounded normal – at least he didn't sound like he was having trouble breathing. But the abject sorrow was disconcerting.

"Oh, my God, I forgot. I forgot she's sick. I was so worked up in how this affects me. . ." Mark reached for Martina and took her hands. "I'm so sorry, I can't believe I forgot."

Martina gave him an understanding smile. "Well, I kind of dumped a lot of information on you all at once. It's okay, Mark."

"No, it's _not_ okay. Our daughter's sick." Mark released her hands, rising. He took the pile of photographs from the edge of the desk, clenching them protectively to his chest. His next words were filled with dread.

"Marty, what are we gonna _do_?"


	6. Chapter 6

_**Inheritance Tax**_ **by IntialLuv**

 **Chapter Six**

Martina didn't answer Mark's question; she was only able to look at him in quiet regret. He returned her look with an expression of utter misery, and it was almost more than she could bear.

In the middle of the awkward silence, Hardcastle repeated his earlier inquiry.

"What is wrong with her? What kind of sick?"

McCormick grimaced slightly. "Uh, Marty, you gotta explain it. It kinda went – " he gestured with his free hand, miming "over his head."

"Okay." Martina moved to the chair on the opposite side of the desk, sitting down wearily. Mark sat again as well, and while waiting for Martina to speak, he busied himself by scrutinizing the photographs.

"It's called polycystic kidney disease." Martina paused, looking at the judge. He shook his head. "Sorry. I don't think I've ever heard of it."

She sighed. "I hadn't either, until about two weeks ago. When she first got sick, the doctors had a hard time figuring out what was wrong. PKD – it's just easier to say – isn't really a childhood disease. It's not unheard of, but usually people with PKD don't have any symptoms until they're thirty or forty. So it's considered more of an adult-onset disease."

"But what does it do? I mean, it affects her kidneys?" McCormick briefly looked up from the photos.

"It's basically what the name says: she has cysts on her kidneys, and they affect how they work. The cysts. . . damage them. Olivia was getting infections, and headaches. She was just achy all the time, and tired out for no reason." Martina had to pause again, as she remembered the fear and utter frustration she and her mother had felt during that pre-diagnosis period.

"Now that we know what's wrong, there's things we can do. We have to watch her blood pressure, and she's on a very low dose of medication for that. But she might be able to go off the medication. . . Changing her diet should help keep her blood pressure down. And we need to make sure she gets enough exercise – nothing with a lot of physical contact, though, like soccer or . . . basketball." Martina stressed the last word, gazing at Mark's lowered head. "We don't want her participating in anything where she could get hurt."

"So how do you get rid of the cysts? What do they do for that?" Milt asked.

Martina's response was a slow shake of her head.

McCormick looked up again as he realized there had been no answer to Hardcastle's question. "Marty?"

"There's no cure."

The words were barely out of her mouth when Mark let out a humorless laugh. "Of course there's a cure."

Martina tensed her shoulders, taking a deep breath. She'd been in Mark's place only a few weeks ago.

"PKD can be managed, but Olivia will always have it. It's progressive, and there's no cure."

Mark stared at her, uncomprehending. He turned to Hardcastle. "Judge?" he asked hopefully, as if expecting the older man had different information.

Hardcastle sat back and studied the two young people sitting before him. Martina was looking at Mark with a combination of concern and guilt. Mark was doing his best to avoid meeting Martina's gaze; he was instead still looking imploringly at the judge.

Milt met Mark's eyes, and he could practically feel the kid's inner torment. Hardcastle thought to himself that this was probably a more difficult scenario than if McCormick had actually known the girl before she became ill. And it wasn't just the girl's dire predicament – it was Mark's past that made this whole thing unbearable. McCormick's father had disappeared on him when he was a kid, and now Mark himself, although unknowingly, had not been there for his own child. The irony was ridiculous. And when he finally finds out about the girl, getting a chance to maybe be a positive influence in her life – he gets hit in the gut with a sucker punch.

Milt couldn't think of anything positive to say to reassure his friend. The best he could come up with was, "I think you better listen to her, kid."

McCormick sunk deep into his chair. It was as if the words had pierced him, to let all his energy and animation escape. His face hardened, and when he finally returned Martina's look, it was with dull, emotionless eyes.

"Go on," he directed tonelessly.

Martina faltered, thrown off by what had just happened. She had at first been truly surprised by the way Mark had turned to the judge for reassurance, like the older man was a touchstone for him. And then when Mark had not gotten the answer he'd been desperately hoping for, the way he'd shut down . . . The expressionless face, the monotone voice: that was the Mark she remembered from the hospital. The fifteen-year-old Mark whose mother was dying and whose life was falling apart.

And now she was the one responsible for destroying his life.

Martina tried to remember where she had left off. "What we're hoping is that the cysts don't develop as quickly, now that she's getting treatment," she started slowly. "Olivia's right kidney has less cysts than her left – and that's good, that she has one kidney that's not as affected. But it's not just her kidneys. There could be other complications."

"Like what?" Hardcastle prodded gently. Mark stared at his hands. The photographs, now forgotten, had been set on the table next to the chair.

"Well. . . Nothing's definite. We're all still learning about this, although my mother has been researching and talking to the doctors so much she'll soon be an expert."

McCormick looked up and gave a small snort, prompting Hardcastle to raise his eyebrows in question. The younger man shrugged.

"Her mother's a nurse." _And a bitch._

"The complications," Martina continued, "we just have to keep watch for, because we really don't know how extreme her condition could progress. But the cysts could also develop in her liver, or pancreas. And then. . . " Martina swallowed, unsure if she had the strength to finish.

"And then?" Milt was looking at her somberly, and Martina felt an odd kindred with the man. She tried to draw strength from his sympathetic gaze.

"She could have problems with her brain. She could have a brain aneurysm."

Martina looked across the desk to where Mark sat. The hardened look had faded, and he was now staring at her with what looked like despair.

Martina was suddenly reminded that Olivia's possible challenges could be Mark's, as well.

"Now do you see why I'm so worried about you?" she demanded.

McCormick sat back slightly. "Wha – Marty, no. Knock it off. _I'm_ fine."

"I really don't think you are," Martina responded simply.

"What's this?" Hardcastle asked. His head swiveled between Mark and Martina, watching their interaction.

"It's nothing, Hardcase," Mark answered, but he didn't look at the judge. Instead he glared at Martina, as if daring her to explain.

Martina returned the glare.

"I think Mark has the same thing Olivia has. I think she inherited it from him."

"Marty. . ." Mark groaned, leaning his head back and closing his eyes. But even with his eyes closed, he could tell Hardcastle was staring at him. He could feel the gaze of the steady blue eyes like a physical weight upon his chest.

"McCormick."

Mark opened his eyes, but didn't look at the judge. Instead he stared up at the ceiling silently.

"McCormick!"

Mark shook his head, refusing to answer.

Milt had to almost physically stop himself from coming out from behind the desk and grabbing the kid to shake some sense into him. He had actually pushed back his desk chair when he happened to glance in Martina's direction. _Probably don't want to be threatening the kid when she's so positive there's something wrong with him._

Hardcastle settled down with some effort, resting his palms on his desk.

"What makes you think he could have this – this cystic thing?" he asked Martina.

"It's genetic – the type Olivia has. It's called 'autosomal dominant.' That means she inherited the gene. And when she was diagnosed, her doctors thought she had inherited it from me. I hadn't had any symptoms, but they didn't think that was unusual - they just figured I was still in the early stages, or that maybe any symptoms I might've noticed I had written off as something minor. Like the flu, or stress. . ." Here Martina paused to look at Mark, who was still studying the ceiling.

"So I was tested. I had a complete physical, blood tests, ultrasound. And they didn't find anything. Olivia didn't inherit it from me. That leaves Mark.

"And then I remembered about his mother, and it all made sense."

Hardcastle narrowed his eyes. He turned to McCormick, who had finally lowered his head.

"What about your mother?"

Mark sighed slightly, but didn't respond. He looked fixedly at a corner of the desk, refusing to face the judge.

Milt gave a sigh of his own. His was loud and impatient. "I'm getting a little tired of this silent treatment, McCormick!"

Mark jerked a hand in Martina's direction. "Ask her. She's got all the answers," he said bitterly.

Hardcastle rubbed a hand over his face and inhaled deeply. "Martina?" he asked.

She nodded, understanding. "Mark's mother died of kidney failure. I had just thought it was diabetes, a complication. But knowing what I know now, I think she had this. PKD can lead to kidney failure if it's untreated or undiagnosed. And I don't know if she was diagnosed correctly. I don't even know if they knew that much about it back then. That was twenty years ago."

"Nineteen," Mark said quietly. "Nineteen this September."

Even though the words themselves had been distressing, Hardcastle was encouraged by the fact that McCormick had found his voice. "So do you think your mother had this thing?" he asked him.

"I don't know!" McCormick shouted. At the same time he heard his words echo, he saw a slight wince cross the judge's face. Mark instantly lowered his voice. "I'm sorry, Judge. But I don't know. I don't remember, or maybe I never knew." He jutted his chin at Martina. "We already went over this."

No one said anything for a moment. Milt was quietly mulling over Martina's words, and what they implied. Martina and Mark regarded each other from their respective spots on either side of the judge's desk. McCormick was suddenly hit with a vision of a courtroom; Martina was the prosecution, he was the defense, and Hardcastle was sitting in judgment. Mark couldn't believe he'd never seen it before: the way the judge had his desk sitting at the forefront of the room, with a leather chair on each side for opposing counselors. He felt amused and disgusted at the same time.

"Okay." Milt sat up stiffly in his chair and looked at Martina. "If he's got this disease, what would the symptoms be? The same kind of things your daughter had?"

Martina made a gesture that was half-nod, half-shrug. "Maybe. It's relative. It depends on the stage of the disease, and a person's age – "

"Okay, I get it, but give me an idea."

"Well, infections, either kidney or urinary. Um, back pain, or abdominal pain. Headaches. The headaches could be from high blood pressure, but a doctor would need to check that, a lot of times people don't even know they have high blood pressure." She paused, looking at Mark for a reaction. He stared back impassively.

Martina took a deep breath, then pressed on. "Sometimes being really tired, and achy - like I said, it could just be mistaken it for the flu."

Milt nodded absently at the words, but he was no longer looking at Martina; he was now intensely studying Mark.

Martina decided it was time to drive the point home.

"Another symptom is pale skin, and bruising easily."

Hardcastle glanced at Martina, hearing the way she spoke the words not to him, but to McCormick. Martina looked at Milt briefly, then spoke to the younger man again.

"I think you need to show him, Mark."

The judge turned his attention back to McCormick just in time to see the kid give Martina a quick negative shake of his head.

"Show me what?" Milt asked warily.

"It's not a big deal." Mark dismissed it with a half-hearted wave.

"That's twice now you've lied to me."

McCormick sighed heavily, dropping his head. "I'm sorry, Judge."

"Stop apologizing," Milt said irritably. "Just tell me the truth. What is she talking about?"

Hesitantly, McCormick stood up and approached the desk. He kept his head down, not looking at Hardcastle as the older man rose to meet him. Mark reached with his right hand to slowly pull up the sleeve covering his left bicep. As he did so, he distractedly noticed that his right hand was shaking.

Milt stared at the dark bruises circling Mark's upper arm, first with confusion and then with a dawning horror. "I didn't grab you that hard," he said, flustered.

"I know." McCormick glanced up, saw the expression on the judge's face, and then quickly averted his eyes. He made to pull away, but Hardcastle stopped him with an outstretched hand. As Mark stood quietly, Milt gently placed his hand onto the ring of bruises, lining each one up with a finger. It was a perfect match.

" _Damn,"_ Hardcastle breathed.


	7. Chapter 7

_**Inheritance Tax**_ **by IntialLuv**

 **Chapter Seven**

McCormick felt a fearful stab in his gut at Hardcastle's exclamation. It was one thing if Martina professed concern – he remembered that feeling, and even after so many years, he could still understand it. But when Hardcase was worried for his well-being. . . Well, that was unusual. Sure, the judge worried about him being late for his classes, worried about him forgetting to stop at the meat market to pick up steaks for dinner. He worried about him using the wrong fertilizer on the roses, worried about him not paying the gatehouse phone bill. But Hardcastle didn't show obvious worry about his health – unless, of course, it involved an injury that necessitated an unexpected hospital stay. And since he'd been in law school, those had been few and far between. There weren't a lot of bad guys to chase in the lecture halls and libraries.

If Hardcastle ever did mention McCormick's health, it was typically to grouse or lecture. "Make sure you dry your hair before you go out – I don't want to hear you whining tomorrow that you've got a cold!" was a common grumble if McCormick had recently taken a shower or had been swimming in the pool. The judge was also fond of criticizing what kind of (junk) food McCormick ate, and how much. "Don't expect me to feel sorry for you when you're up all night with a stomach ache!" was another familiar phrase.

Yet now here was Hardcastle looking at him with intense alarm, acting like if he touched him he might break. And all of Mark's earlier resolve, all of his adamant declarations of being "fine," began to unravel. He could believe there was nothing wrong with him if the only person telling him otherwise was a woman who hadn't seen him in ten years. But when his best friend, who knew him almost as well as he knew himself, was obviously shaken by this health scare. . . If he didn't have Hardcastle declaring that he was fit as a fiddle, then –

The stab of pain became a deep throbbing ache. McCormick involuntarily gasped and pressed his hands against his stomach. His vision blurred. He heard a sharp high-pitched voice that could only be Martina, and the answering deep voice of Hardcastle's. He couldn't make out the words.

Mark gradually became aware that he was sitting in the judge's desk chair. The voices started to clear, becoming more words than noise, but the sentences ran together in an incoherent jumble.

"—is what I meant when I– "

"—don't think he passed out, not really—"

" _Mark_? Mark, can you – "

"Give him a min – "

Mark lifted his hands to place them protectively over his ears. "Stop! _Please_. My head is killing me."

Silence reigned. McCormick slowly lowered his hands and looked at the two people flanking him, peering down with identical anxious stares. It was almost funny, how their expressions matched. _Yeah. Pretty damn funny._

The laughing startled him. It didn't sound like him, but he could feel it bubbling up inside and bursting out. He tried to pull it back in, but all he was able to do was inhale a gasp of air before the laughing took over again.

Distantly, McCormick realized that he was teetering on the brink. When was the last time he'd come this close to losing it? Prison? When he'd gotten the news that Flip was dead?

When he'd shot and killed Weed Randall.

The laughter stopped almost as abruptly as it had started. He suddenly noticed how _rotten_ he felt.

"Kiddo?"

The single word was spoken with a vastness of undertones.

"I'm all right, Judge," he tried his best to sound assuring. "I could use a glass of water, though."

Hardcastle left so quickly it was as if he had predicted the request before Mark had even spoken the words.

Once the judge had departed, Martina reached out to swivel the desk chair, slowly turning Mark in her direction. Bending down slightly, she reached out to gingerly grasp his shoulders, mindful of the bruises. Without speaking, she bent forward so that her forehead was touching Mark's. After a moment, he leaned into her support, raising his arms to encircle her neck.

They were still in the quiet embrace when the judge returned with the water. He halted in the doorway, embarrassed to have interrupted the intimate moment. He faked a cough as he entered, alerting them of his presence.

Martina pulled away first. Her face was flushed and tears were falling freely. She looked around blearily, located her purse, and pulled out a small packet of tissues. Milt looked away, never quite comfortable around emotional women. Hell, there had even been times, early on in his marriage, when he had avoided Nancy if she had been in a similar state.

While Martina's face had been flushed, McCormick's was pale. He cleared his throat thickly and reached for the water, muttering a hoarse thanks. After a few tentative sips, he drained the glass in one long swallow.

"Better?" Milt asked.

McCormick nodded, but without much confidence. "I'm just tired. Maybe too much sun, got dehydrated or some—"

"You're kidding, right?" Hardcastle interrupted.

Mark looked challengingly at the judge. Milt shook his head impatiently.

"I'm done playing games, McCormick. I don't know what the hell's going on with you, but enough's enough. I'm calling Charlie."

McCormick barked out a laugh, looked momentarily worried that it might turn into hysterics again, and then was able to return to his glare.

"Go ahead. Like he's gonna be able to fit me right in. It's not like he waits around for us to call, you know. We're not his only patients."

"Then he'll refer somebody. Or I'll take you to the ER. But you're gonna see a doctor. Or a shrink. Or both."

McCormick's adverse reaction to the mention of a psychiatrist was immediately apparent on his face. Hardcastle saw the initial disbelief, which was quickly followed by anger. Then both emotions were overcome by a look that Milt could only describe as fear. For a moment he felt guilty, bringing that despised word into the conversation and scaring the kid. But the moment was fleeting, and the guilt was replaced by determination.

 _He needs to be scared. Something's going on, and scaring him might be the only way to get it out of him._

Meanwhile, Martina had composed herself, although her eyes were still red. She came to stand by the judge now, and they both waited for Mark's response.

Whereas Mark had had the earlier impression of a courtroom, he now imagined Martina and Hardcastle as "mom" and "dad," joining forces to compel his cooperation. He might be able to smooth talk his way out of a doctor or hospital visit with one of them, but there was no way he'd be able to use his conman skills against a united front.

McCormick weighed his options, considering what would happen if he just plain refused to see a doctor. The possible outcomes that came to his mind were not attractive.

"Okay," he agreed quietly. "Call Charlie."

And in the farthest corner of his mind, he planned ahead for escape.


	8. Chapter 8

_**Inheritance Tax**_ **by InitialLuv**

 **Chapter Eight**

True to McCormick's conjecture, Charlie Friedman was not available when Hardcastle called, and the judge had to settle for leaving a call-back message with the nurse. The next phone call was to the cab company, so Martina could get a ride back to her hotel. McCormick had offered to drive her and save her the cab fare, but was immediately shot down by both Martina ("it's too far, way out by the airport") and by Hardcastle ("you're not going anywhere, sport, so just forget it!").

"Well, can I at least go outside?" Mark shot back defiantly, as if daring the older man to confine him to the den. "I need some air."

"Just don't go too far," Hardcastle ordered, knowing of McCormick's habit of wandering the beach. "When Charlie calls back, he's gonna want to talk to you."

Mark turned away with a low exhale. He saw Martina gazing at him, and returning her look, jerked his head at the judge.

"I think you'd better come with me. Keep me 'in line'." He didn't bother to hide the irritation in his voice.

Milt watched as McCormick left the den, turning right at the double doors. Martina wavered, and Mark paused to look back at her.

Hardcastle gave the woman a shooing gesture. "It's gonna be at least twenty minutes before a taxi gets out here. And I'm sure they'll beep."

After the couple left, Milt remained behind his desk, tapping his fingers impatiently, for approximately two minutes. Then he was up and quickly following the same path he'd deduced McCormick and Martina had taken. Only when he was able to look out the kitchen window to see them safely sitting by the pool did he begin to relax.

* * *

Mark had been brooding and staring at the glass-like surface of the pool when Martina spoke.

"Who's Charlie?" she asked.

Mark shifted slightly in his patio chair. "Uh, he's actually Hardcastle's doctor – well, they've known each other so long they're more like friends. I'm kind of an unofficial patient of his."

"So he's not a specialist," Martina gathered. "I hope he'll take this seriously." She wasn't sure if she liked the "unofficial patient" status.

Mark shook his head with a resigned expression. "Marty, I don't think you're going to have to worry about that. If this is out of Charlie's wheelhouse, the judge will make sure I see who I need to see." He took a deep breath. "After the show I just put on in the den, I think Hardcastle's ready to commit me. "

Martina reached out to touch his arm, and was gratified when he didn't pull away. But what he said next caused her to draw back her hand.

"And I can't even blame him. You know, seeing you. . . I don't like where my head is at right now."

She was slightly bothered by his admission, and felt the need to explain herself. "This wasn't something I could do over the phone, Mark. I had to do this in person. I needed to _see_ you. To see how you were. And I'm not just talking about your health."

He nodded, remembering her earlier statement. "You wanted to see if I'd changed. After being in prison. I'll save you the trouble." He leaned forward a little, rubbing his hands on his knees in a repetitive, almost obsessive motion. "Hell yes, I changed. No one does hard time without coming out a different person. What you have to do, to just _survive_ inside – You lose. . . a part of yourself. I think the longer you're inside, the less you recognize yourself when you get out." He paused to take a fortifying breath. His hands stilled, clenching into fists.

"And even if you try to. . . You know, things are great for me now. The judge has helped me more than he'll ever know. I've got a future, a good shot at being a successful, decent person. But then there are times when I worry there's not enough of me left to actually reach that future. Because that part of myself I left inside? I'm never gonna get it back. And I don't like what replaced it."

Martina sat quietly, not sure if he was done. _And even if he is, what do I say? How do I respond to that?_

Mark was still struggling to make some kind of sense of a topic he generally avoided.

"And San Quentin wasn't my first rodeo. I'd been 'around'." He tried to grin, but it came out as more of a grimace. "I kinda knew the drill. I thought I'd come out okay. Well, not 'okay,' exactly. . . Intact. But I'd never done that long a stretch, and maximum security is whole different animal." He snorted. " _Animal_. You know that phrase, when it's the perfect word?"

" _Le mot juste_ ," Martina supplied. "It's French."

McCormick stared at her. "How'd you just come up with that?" he asked, impressed.

She shrugged modestly. "Teacher, remember?"

"I don't remember learning French when I was in elementary school," Mark scoffed. "Some Latin, maybe, from the year I was in Catholic school. And from church." He paused, thinking. "It's nice to have that background, actually, when it comes to some of my classes. There's a lot of Latin used in law."

The subject had been subtly changed. Mark hoped Martina would understand and respect the shift in topic.

He adjusted his position in the chair again, trying to find a comfortable angle, and winced slightly. Martina saw the pained expression, and moved closer, resting her hand on his.

"Are you all right? What's wrong?"

"I landed on my butt – you know, when I fell? It's just kinda sensitive right now." This time he was able to produce a true grin. He was pleased – and a little surprised – when she returned the smile. But her next statement startled him into momentary silence.

"Olivia reminds me so much of you. That grin. In a way, I never really lost you. I've had you, a part of you, in her." She smiled to herself. "And it's not just her looks. There's so many other things."

Mark looked down, saw that at some point his and Martina's hands had become intertwined. He took a few deep breaths, then lifted his head.

"Does – does she know about me?"

Martina lowered her gaze, also looking at their joined hands. She shook her head slowly. "No. I – I didn't know what your reaction would be. I didn't want to raise her hopes." She looked up earnestly, and saw a sincere understanding on Mark's face. He neglected to explain the expression, and instead asked another question.

"What's she like?"

A glowing smile lit up Martina's face, momentarily erasing her troubles. For a few moments, she could forget Olivia's – and perhaps Mark's – illness. She could forget about her mother meddling in her and Mark's relationship so many years ago. Right now, she was a proud mother with a receptive audience.

"Oh. . . She's generous. She's always willing to do something for – or give something to – someone she thinks isn't getting a fair shake. She has this innate sense of fairness, of 'justice.'

"She's funny. The things she comes up with! She can make my mother laugh out loud, if you can believe that.

"And she's so smart. She's had to miss some school since she got sick. I was bringing her assignments home; I had taken a leave of absence, too, but I still came in to do lesson plans for the substitute." Martina's smile faded somewhat as the current situation reared its ugly head. "Well, she kept right up with her class, even came in to take a science test a few days before she. . . Well, before this last hospital stay, when she was finally diagnosed."

Martina paused, suddenly lost. She blinked rapidly, trying to ward off the unwelcome emotion.

Mark squeezed her hand lightly. "Marty?" he said softly. "How'd she do on the test?"

The tears were momentarily held at bay. Martina was able to smile gratefully at Mark, swipe one hand across her face, and continue with the praise of her daughter.

"She got a 99 percent. Highest grade in her class. Of course, she acts like it's not a big deal." Martina shook her head affectionately. "She says it's because she's a teacher's kid. But she is _smart_.

"Sometimes she's too smart for her own good. She can get a little mouthy. Especially when she gets impatient or frustrated, and her temper gets the better of her. That's been happening a little more lately, with everything that's been going on. I haven't been calling her on it as much as I should," she admitted guiltily.

Mark frowned at a similarity he finally recognized. He was about to mention it when Martina suddenly clapped a hand to her forehead. "Oh!" she exclaimed. "And the music!"

"Music?" Mark repeated, feeling a little lost.

Another broad smile. "She has this uncanny knack to remember practically every song she hears. The melody, the lyrics. . . And she can pick them out by ear on the piano. She never even needed lessons. My mom likes to use the word 'prodigy.' I think it's more like an obsession. Not a bad one," she was quick to defend, "but it's definitely unique." Martina looked at Mark thoughtfully. "It's a little like you with cars. I remember thinking how. . . odd it was that you knew so much about cars when you couldn't even drive, yet."

McCormick looked away in annoyance. "I couldn't get a _license_ yet. That doesn't mean I couldn't drive." He'd been working at the car wash for a couple months before he'd met Martina. And sometimes O'Malley, his boss, had dangled the carrot of letting his eager new employee test out some of the vehicles that remained overnight for detailing – as long as Mark had also agreed to run a few 'errands.' And as how the extra errands also came with a much-needed monetary reward, Mark had not been difficult to persuade.

Mark's grim reflections faded as he noticed Martina was speaking again.

"This obsession of hers . . . I don't know where she gets it. We got her a new stereo with one of those compact disc players for her birthday last year, and now every scrap of money she has, from babysitting or allowance, she spends it on cassettes or compact discs. Of course, my mother spoils her and buys them for her, too. It's so we practically need another room for her music library." Martina laughed lightly. "It's a little ridiculous – I mean, she's never going to be able to listen to them all –"

The smile disappeared. Martina put a dismayed hand over her mouth, and a ragged sob escaped.

"I _hate_ this! Little clichés like that, sayings - I can't even think them now without thinking –"

Mark rested his hands on her shoulders. "Don't think, don't dwell on it, not right now. Just tell me more." When Martina didn't respond, still fighting to hold back tears, he prodded further. "So this music thing – you said you don't know who she got it from? What about your father?"

Martina managed a small smile. "God, no. He couldn't even sing. No, I don't think it comes from. . ." She looked at Mark as a dawning came across her face. ". . . from me or my parents."

Mark pulled away abruptly. "Well it sure as hell isn't from me." _And I'm **not** bringing up Sonny._ "In fact, I don't think a lot of what you've described sounds anything like me," he said glumly. "Except for the smart mouth."

Martina stared at him, puzzled.

"Mark, no – it's everything. It's all you. You have to see that." Mark shook his head stubbornly, refusing to look at her. Martina reached up to touch his face, letting her hand linger until he met her gaze.

"You can't stand to see someone hurt without trying to help. You've got that way of finding humor in almost everything; you could always ease a tense situation with a joke. And are you trying to tell me you're not smart, the guy who's been in law school for two years?"

Her hand had moved to the back of his neck, and she was rubbing it lightly, almost unconsciously.

"I'll bet there's a connection there with the music, too. She's the best parts of you, Mark. The parts I've always loved."

Mark reached up, covering her hand with his own. He became acutely aware of how little space there was between them. His heart seemed to be beating in triple-time, so that he could feel it pounding in his ears, his eyes, the tips of his fingers. He had to fight to control his breathing.

He hesitated for a half a second before leaning in, and in that small space of time she was pulling him toward her. When their lips met, Mark felt nineteen years race backwards, and his head swam with the emotions and memories.

Martina unknowingly caressed his sore arm as they kissed. Mark thought dimly to himself that he'd gladly endure the pain to enjoy this pleasure.

When they finally parted, Martina seemed as breathless as he felt. She was blushing, and he realized with a start that he'd been a little remiss in telling her she looked great. She looked _damn_ great. The slightly tousled dark hair. The high color of her face, the way her eyes sparkled so he could see the flecks of green in the hazel. He couldn't stop staring at her.

"Mark."

"Mmm?"

" _Mark_." This time she grasped his arm and gave it a little shake. He blinked, then slowly smiled.

"Marty, that was - Wow. I didn't realize how much I'd missed you."

She laughed softly. "I think the feeling's mutual."

His smile dissolved. "And now you're gonna go, just when things are getting good." He sat back in his chair, dejected. "When is your flight back to New York?"

"I've got an open-ended ticket. . . I didn't know how long it would take to find you, and talk to you. But I think I'll go back tomorrow, on the soonest flight I can." She gave him an apologetic look. "I don't want to be away from Olivia too long. You understand, don't you?"

"Yeah. I've been away from her her whole life. So you need to understand: I'm coming out there."

"Mark, you need to see the doctor, you have to find out – "

"And I will. I told you already, Hardcase'll make sure of that," he muttered, with a grudging acceptance.

Martina studied him. "At some point you're going to have to explain to me about this friend of yours."

He laughed. "It's a long story. I'll tell you when I come to New York." Martina seemed ready to voice another disapproval, but he forged ahead. "So, maybe you should give me your phone number or address or something, so I don't have to use a private eye to find _you_."

"McCormick!"

Mark jumped at the judge's yell, the intonation of which made it seem like it hadn't been the first. It was followed by several distant beeps of a horn that could only be from the requested taxi cab.

And then they were both rising to reenter the house. Mark trailed Martina as she retrieved her purse from the den and then went where Hardcastle was indicating, out the front door to the waiting taxi. McCormick inwardly cursed the timing. Just a minute more, and he could have wormed some information out of her. Of course, it wasn't like he wouldn't be able to find her, and he doubted she'd come all this way to tell him he had a kid and then suddenly disappear on him, but it would have been so much easier if she would have met him halfway. He idly wondered if he had given her second thoughts, either with the talk about prison, or the sudden passionate kiss. _But she had practically initiated that kiss, when she saw you were hesitating._

He accompanied Martina to the taxi, reaching out to open the rear door. His hand grasped the handle, but he suddenly found it hard to actually put her in this car that would take her away from him again. He held onto the handle but didn't lever it open. He regarded her with quiet sorrow.

"Oh, look at you. . . " Martina shook her head. "Just like Olivia. Those damn puppy-dog eyes." She fumbled in her purse, finally withdrawing a checkbook. She tore off a blank deposit slip and handed it to Mark.

"There. Phone number _and_ address."

He stared down at the unexpected gift. While he was distracted, Martina reached past him to open the door of the taxi, stepping inside.

"Mark."

He looked up from the piece of paper, unable to speak. She reached through the lowered window of the cab, to grasp his hand.

"Please. Take care of yourself. Find out what's going on. Promise me you will."

He leaned down, tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, and bent forward to give her a quick kiss.

The sudden blare of the cab's horn made him realize the quick kiss had been anything but. Mark threw a dirty look at the driver, and then was once again lost in the hazel eyes. He backed away slowly, not wanting to break the gaze.

"I promise," he said.

And as he watched the taxi leaving Gulls' Way, a part of him actually believed the promise.


	9. Chapter 9

_**Inheritance Tax**_ **by InitialLuv**

 **Chapter Nine**

When Hardcastle had reassured himself that McCormick was staying close to the main house, he had gone back to the den to sit at his desk. He had justified the location as the best place to keep an eye out for the arriving taxi, pretending that it wasn't actually because he was watching the phone and waiting for it to ring. But now as Milt observed the unexpectedly tender farewell between Mark and Martina, he thought maybe he could have better used his time by spying on the couple through the kitchen window. Hardcastle had witnessed the brief embrace in the den, but he was pretty sure something more intense had happened out by the pool. If he hadn't already suspected it from how utterly distracted the two had been when he'd come to tell them the taxi had arrived, he definitely would have come to the conclusion after witnessing the goodbye kiss.

Not to mention the way the kid was reacting now as the taxi drove away: slumping his shoulders and hanging his head, shoving his hands in his pockets, and looking positively pitiful.

"Hey."

McCormick turned at the call, slightly embarrassed. He replaced the hang-dog expression with a brief frown.

"Charlie call yet?" His voice held an overt nonchalance that Hardcastle was pretty sure was feigned.

"Nah, not yet."

Mark nodded, looked back in the direction the taxi had gone.

"You know, you missed lunch. You hungry?"

McCormick remembered that it had been around noon when he'd started working on the judge's pickup, and that he'd hoped to quickly sort out the annoying noise in the engine before they both tucked into the midday meal.

 _Who knows how long it will take to fix now, after your tools fell into it?_

McCormick looked down at his watch, seeing it was now . . . half-past two? That much time had passed?

Well, he'd had the two 'episodes' in the den, and hadn't had much idea how long either of them had lasted. He'd didn't think he'd lost too much time, though – if one or the other incident had been truly serious, whether in time or in his physical reaction, he knew either Hardcastle or Martina would have forced his hand, making him get immediate medical attention.

"Uh, did you eat?"

Hardcastle made a see-saw gesture with his hand. "Grabbed an orange."

McCormick finally turned from the driveway, walking up the steps to where Hardcastle was waiting. The two men made their way into the house and down the hall toward the kitchen.

Once in the kitchen, McCormick wandered to the refrigerator. He opened it to stare inside, although he didn't make any movement to grab anything. After nearly a minute of this, Hardcastle rapped on the table, hard. "What are you doing?" he demanded.

Mark flinched. "Sorry." He closed the fridge, then moved aimlessly to check the dry foods in the nearby cupboards. After repeating the same non-seeing routine, the doors were shut with nothing removed. McCormick came to sit at the table.

"Sorry," he repeated. "Guess I don't have much of an appetite." When Hardcastle scowled at him, McCormick gave a small shrug. "Doesn't mean you can't eat."

The judge pulled out a chair, also sitting down. He counted in his head, hoping it would help him tamp down the irritation before it became anger. He wondered how high he would have to count before he felt he could comfortably address the kid without yelling at him.

Milt didn't get a chance to find out. Before he had gotten to five, the phone rang.

At first, neither of them rose. They looked at one another, as if waiting each other out to see who would answer the ring. And when McCormick finally stood to move to the phone on the wall, he had the bearing of a man making his last walk down the hall to an executioner's chair.

"Hello? Yeah, hi, Charlie." Mark turned to face the wall, effectively blocking the judge from seeing his face.

"No, Charlie, it's actually for me. . . Well, it's a little unusual. . . No, nothing like that."

Hardcastle rose, coming to stand near the younger man. Mark looked around to see the judge leaning against the counter with his arms crossed and an expectant look on his face.

"Hang on, Charlie," McCormick said, then shoved the receiver in Hardcastle's direction. "You obviously don't believe I'll tell him the truth, so why don't you talk to him?" he asked bluntly.

The judge backed up a bit, raising his hands in concession. "Calm down, kiddo. You're doing fine."

"Yeah," McCormick muttered. "I'm 'fine.' That's why I'm on the phone with a doctor." He brought the receiver back to his ear, still glaring at Hardcastle.

"I'm back, sorry about that. . . Okay, like I said, it's unusual." Mark took a deep breath, and Milt could see that the man's hand was gripping the receiver so hard his knuckles were turning white.

"Charlie, do you know anything about polycystic kidney disease?"

McCormick didn't say much for the next few moments, his only words being either a "Mmm-hmm," or a "Right." And then he got to the meat of the matter.

"I think it might be in my family history. I think I need . . . to get checked out."

Hardcastle listened in slight surprise as McCormick candidly listed the noticeable differences of the last few weeks, which had now become possible symptoms. He watched his friend's face as it changed from contrite to pensive to reluctant.

"Already? I mean, it's kinda late, isn't it. . .?" Mark looked at his watch briefly. "No, I can do that. . . Yeah, that sounds okay.

"Thanks, Charlie."

McCormick hung up the phone, then slowly turned back to the judge.

"He wants me to come down for lab work. Blood test and all that. As soon as possible. He said he can put in a rush order and have the results by tomorrow."

"So he knew what you were talking about?" Hardcastle asked cautiously.

Mark nodded. "Yeah, some. But he said if the test results show anything . . . 'off,' that he'd refer me to a . . . nephrologist? I think that's what he said."

"Okay!" Hardcastle clapped his hands, and gestured toward the garage. "Well, since my pickup's out of commission, we'd better take the 'Vette."

McCormick knew that the selection of the Corvette over the Coyote meant he'd be riding shotgun, and he looked stunned. "You're not going to let me drive," he realized in disbelief.

Milt didn't even try to soften the blow. "After what happened in the den – twice?! No, you're not getting behind the wheel again until we know what the hell is going on. Now let's go, so we can figure it out."

So not ten minutes later, as Hardcastle maneuvered the Corvette down the driveway and onto the PCH, McCormick found himself in the passenger seat, on the way to his date with the unknown.

* * *

Mark barely had to identify himself at the registration desk before he was directed back to the lab area. Providing a urine specimen and getting his blood drawn was relatively routine, as was the weight check. But all the physical pricking and prodding didn't do much for his mental state.

The nurse who guided him to the scale momentarily placed his chart on the nearby counter. Mark glanced at it, trying to remember the last time he'd paid a visit to this medical complex where Charlie practiced. An unwelcome memory seized his consciousness: the time he'd been shot by Dex Falcon and Wendell Price, who then had carelessly tossed him into that God-forsaken ravine. At the tail-end of his recovery, he'd been allowed by his surgeon to come to Charlie for follow-up visits, as long as anything remotely out of the ordinary had been immediately reported. But that had been over two years ago. _There must have been something more recent_ , he thought to himself, _some crazy case of Hardcastle's where I got pummeled and ended up with bruised ribs . . . or a nice head wound, after getting pistol-whipped._ But all he could seem to recall was the bullet wound in his gut, the dread and delirium in the hospital, the nightmares that still made occasional appearances. . .

As he was consumed in his memories, he initially missed the nurse's direction to step off the scale. She repeated her request, somewhat gently, and he bristled at the tone. _I'm not an invalid, I don't even feel that sick, don't_ ** _talk_** _to me like that._

Yeah, the mental status was not good.

"If you'll just step over here, Mr. McCormick, we'll get a blood pressure, and then you'll be free to go." The nurse spoke the words with a humorous bent, and the pun was probably unintentional. In fact, Mark had a feeling the nurse didn't know his background, as she gave the appearance of a fresh-faced new hire. He wondered again about his chart, and how far back into his medical records it really went. Five years? More? It wasn't unthinkable that it would have his prison information in it.

 _Free to go._ He thought ruefully about the comment Martina had made, about how there were certain sayings or clichés that now meant so much more than a flippant remark. He knew exactly what she had been talking about.

 _Stir crazy. Crime doesn't pay. Take no prisoners. It takes a thief to catch a thief. Partners in crime. Thick as thieves._

He sat in the cubicle area the nurse indicated. She retrieved a blood pressure cuff and a snazzy blue stethoscope, and automatically began to reach for his left arm.

"Uh, can you do it on my right arm?" he asked, feeling a little foolish, but really not wanting the vice-like squeeze on the fresh bruises.

She smiled placatingly and changed her position, pushing up his right sleeve slightly to position the Velcro cuff. She hooked the stethoscope into her ears.

It was as the cuff was deflating that Mark got the first inkling that something was wrong. The nurse had a furrow between her eyes as she listened intently to the beats, timing them with the gauge. She wrote something in his chart, and then stood somewhat abruptly.

"I think I need a different cuff. This one might not be the right size. I'm just going to grab one from the other station."

Mark rubbed his right arm, still able to remotely feel the grip of the cuff. He tried to relax, to slow his heartbeat, but he could also feel the grip of fear.

When the nurse arrived with a different cuff, she made quite a show of inspecting it before wrapping it securely around his arm. He noticed she had even acquired a different stethoscope, which was red.

The second reading didn't do much to reduce the furrow between her eyes, or to dispel the alarm in McCormick's gut. He watched as she quietly wrote another note in his chart, before rolling up the blood pressure cuff and putting both it and the stethoscope in a basket on the wall.

"What was it?"

She looked at him carefully. "Well, it's a little high. But that could just be 'white coat syndrome,'" she offered.

"'White coat' – What?"

"Anxiety raising your blood pressure," she clarified. "It's not uncommon for people to be nervous during an appointment."

Mark snorted. "You must not have read my chart. This stuff is old hat to me." When the nurse looked at him somewhat doubtfully, he explained, "Occupational hazard, I guess." He hoped she wouldn't inquire just what kind of occupation made him frequently need doctor appointments.

"Well, I'm sure Dr. Friedman will check your blood pressure again when you see him, you shouldn't be too worried about it right now," the nurse said, still not saying what the "it" was.

"Yeah, okay, but what _was_ it?" Mark asked again.

She tapped her pen on his chart lightly. "Well, the first reading was 154 over 92. The second reading was 150 over 90."

He nodded, absently rubbing his right arm again. "And what is it usually? I mean, in my chart, what was it the last time I was here?"

She lifted a page, searching. "The last time you were here was last July, for stitches, a knife wound – "

"Oh, yeah, I _knew_ there had to be something," he interrupted without thought. "And it wasn't a knife, it was a scalpel."

While Mark had been on break from school last summer, Hardcastle had decided the two would tackle what he'd determined was a sedate, predictable case: going after a disreputable physician who was dealing painkillers under the table, at excessively inflated rates, to patients with addictions. The majority of the people the doctor "treated" were patients who had gone to so many different clinics and pharmacists that they had been black-balled, in a sense, of receiving any more medication legally. McCormick had played the part of the addict desperate for just another bottle of painkiller . . . and as he'd still had some visible (and mental) scars from the Price/Falcon mess, his role-playing had assumed a fair amount of credence. Unfortunately the case had taken an unexpected turn, when the suspicious doctor had investigated Mark's bullet wound and surgery scars, ultimately figuring out the young man's true identity. When Hardcastle had McCormick next meet with the physician, ready to reel him in, the doctor had been prepared. Before Hardcastle could intervene and stop the altercation, the doctor had been able to slice the scalpel along Mark's palm. The only positive result Mark had taken from the injury (other than the fact that the apprehended doctor was now also guilty of assault and battery) was that it was his left hand, for once, so it wouldn't dramatically impair his ability to drive the Coyote.

McCormick became aware that the nurse was staring at him with a look of mild shock. He blushed slightly. "Forget it," he mumbled. "Just, what was my blood pressure that time?"

She turned back to the chart. "It looks like it was 110 over 75. And the time before that –"

"Never mind." _Only 110 over 75 – after a fight with a bad guy and an injury._ He was rising. She looked up at him like she wanted to say more, but he spoke first.

"I'm 'free to go,' right? So I'm gonna go." He pointed in the general direction of the exit. "I'll, uh. . . yeah." And as he walked briskly back to the waiting area, he wondered if it would be better to tell the judge about the results now, or wait until Charlie dropped the hammer.


	10. Chapter 10

**_Inheritance Tax_** **by InitialLuv**

 **Chapter Ten**

Hardcastle rose as McCormick came striding back into the waiting area.

"You done already?"

McCormick gave the judge a sour expression. "How long do you think it takes to pee in a cup? Let's get out of here."

The two men were soon seated in the 'Vette, and Hardcastle turned the car back toward home. McCormick opened the glove compartment and began to rummage around, finally pulling out a pair of sunglasses. He put on the dark glasses, then settled back in his seat in an attempt to look relaxed. Hardcastle gave him a sideward glance. In direct contrast to the casual posture, he could feel tension coming off the younger man in waves.

"You gonna tell me what happened in there?"

Mark waved a hand in response. "Just routine tests. You know. I don't really know anything yet."

"When are you supposed to see Charlie?"

"He's supposed to call me tomorrow when the results are in." McCormick lifted a hand and slowly massaged his forehead. Hardcastle chanced another look at him, and while his attention was diverted, he narrowly missed rear-ending the vehicle in front of them. They both braced reflexively in their seats as Hardcastle slammed on the brakes.

"Keep your eyes on the road, Hardcase! Stop looking at me!" McCormick yelled in exasperation. He winced, and his hand rose to immediately rub his forehead again.

Both men were silent for the next few miles, but the passenger's tension had now settled on the driver. He let out an exhausted sigh, and the passenger turned to look at him.

"What's the matter with you?"

"Nothing. Just 'keeping my eyes on the road.' Now stop bothering me."

McCormick fell quiet, but continued to gaze at his friend from behind darkened lenses. It wasn't long before Milt flashed an impatient frown in his direction.

"Stop looking at _me_!"

"Judge. . . "

"I thought you wanted me to pay attention to the road. What the hell do you want, McCormick?" Milt asked, his voice tired.

"It's not my fault, you know."

Hardcastle was silent. His focus was on getting them home, preferably in one piece, and after that, well. . .

"Judge, did you hear me?"

"I'm not deaf, McCormick!"

"I just mean, if – if I'm sick. . . It's not my fault. I can't make it go away. I mean, I'm sorry – "

Hardcastle looked away from the road again. Anyway, they were almost home, he knew the route like the back of his hand. This kid, though, he might never figure him out.

" _Sorry_? What are you saying 'sorry' for? This kidney thing – you're not to blame for that!"

Mark took in an uneven breath, flinging his arms out in frustration. "That's what I'm saying! So why are you mad at me?"

Milt shook his head, tight-lipped.

"Judge, please, talk to me!"

They were at the head of the driveway, and Hardcastle brought the car to a momentary stop as he pressed the remote to open the gate. He turned to face McCormick.

"That goes both ways, kiddo. I know you're not being honest with me. I heard what you were telling Charlie on the phone, the things you've been dealing with the last coupla weeks. And I gotta wonder why you didn't tell me any of it. I also gotta wonder if you would've even admitted how you were feeling if Martina hadn't shown up and stirred up the whole hornet's nest."

Mark realized he'd been apologizing for the wrong thing. Hardcastle pulled the Corvette into the garage and turned off the engine, but neither man made an effort to exit the car. Milt cleared his throat, as if in preparation to talk, but Mark was the first to speak.

"My blood pressure was high."

Hardcastle nodded, but didn't answer. He didn't think he had the energy to respond.

McCormick had taken off the sunglasses, and was absentmindedly fiddling with them. "Marty said that was one of the symptoms," he said. "Along with the bruises, and – Oh, damn, along with _everything_." He ran a hand over his face, and then abruptly flung the sunglasses out onto the garage floor with as much force as was possible. When that did nothing to lessen the sudden overwhelming fury, Mark quickly climbed out of the car to slam the door and head over to the garage shelves.

Before Hardcastle was able to get out of the driver's seat, McCormick was throwing the items off the shelves with both hands, sending oil cans and grilling tools and newspapers and cans of bug spray to the floor. A camping lantern bit the dust. A terracotta flower pot exploded. Finding some satisfaction in the sight of the shattered clay, McCormick found another pot and slammed it down, reducing it to rubble and dust.

Then Hardcastle was there, grabbing his flailing arms and trying to shake him at the same time. "McCormick! Knock it off!"

Mark tried to pull away, intent on his singular mission of destruction. Milt had to apply more pressure on the kid's arms than he wanted - _Think of the bruises he'll have now-_ to get him to respond.

" _Owwww_ – Judge!"

Hardcastle didn't remove his grip. He locked his eyes on McCormick's, and was momentarily shocked by the hopeless fear he saw there. Milt had viewed the fit as more of a tangible primal scream of anger and frustration. He hadn't thought that the same fear that had seized his heart would be mirrored back in his friend's eyes.

Mark's rage had deflated, taking a backseat to the despair. He went limp, and when the judge released his arms he sagged back against the nearby workbench, raising his hands to cover his face.

"I can't do this, Judge," he quavered, his voice muffled. "I don't think I can do this."

"Listen, I think you're getting a little ahead of yourself." Hardcastle tried to sound practical, although it was a stretch. "You said yourself the test results won't be in 'til tomorrow . . . It might not be this cyst thing. "

McCormick dropped his hands and stared at Hardcastle with such incredulity that the judge almost laughed.

"Hardcase, that has to be the dumbest thing you've ever said." McCormick's voice cracked with a shaky chuckle. "And you think _I'm_ in denial."

Milt squinted at his young friend. "Denial? What kind of nonsense are you trying to say?" he grumbled defensively.

Mark just shook his head. "Never mind, Judge." He looked away, his gaze now taking in the chaos of the garage floor and the remaining disorder on the shelves. He sighed, then swept his hand at the mess.

"Oh, God, Judge, I'm sorry. Look at this."

"Ah, don't worry about it. I'll tackle it later. Let's just get out of here." Hardcastle turned to leave the garage, but McCormick hung back.

"What are you talking about? I did this – this is my mess. I'm not just going to leave it for you to fix." Mark was retrieving a broom and dustpan from their hooks on the wall. When the judge didn't move from his spot, instead regarding Mark suspiciously, the younger man grinned at him. "I will let you grab a garbage can, though. I think a lot of this stuff is toast."

The two men worked together to reshelve the things that could be salvaged, and pitch the ones that were "toast." McCormick swept up the broken pieces to deposit them in the garbage can, and when he rose with the full dustpan, a wince of pain crossed his face. He shot a quick glance at Hardcastle to see if the older man had noticed, but the judge seemed to be engrossed in his job of reorganizing the shelves.

The garage was returned to relative order in less than fifteen minutes. Mark returned the broom to its home, hung up the dust pan next to it, and then reached to massage the small of his back, grimacing. He heard the judge's soft steps behind him, and then his voice, just as soft.

"I think this is good, kiddo. Let's go see about dinner – you haven't eaten since breakfast."

Mark dutifully followed the judge into the house though the kitchen door. He wasn't hungry, and at the moment he had no interest in food, but he knew if he made that confession Hardcastle would get anxious, or angry, or both. Inwardly, Mark knew the judge was probably plenty anxious already, especially after his outburst in the garage, but he didn't want to tip the scales to genuine concern. The soft voice in the garage had been unnerving, like Hardcastle had been walking on eggshells, not wanting to do anything that might set McCormick off again. Just another clue that this day had quickly become unnatural, from the second he'd recognized Martina as she'd walked up the drive.

Milt had gotten a pot of leftover stew out of the refrigerator, and as he went about heating it up on the stove, Mark set the table. He got two bottles of beer out of the fridge, and grabbed the fresh loaf of sourdough bread that he'd picked up at the bakery earlier in the morning. _Was that_ _this_ _morning?_ It felt like a lifetime ago. Mark sat at the table and lowered his head into his hands, rubbing his temples wearily.

McCormick hadn't realized the judge had left the kitchen until he returned, to place a bottle of aspirin in front of the younger man. Hardcastle didn't speak; after putting down the pills he simply returned to the stove to stir the stew as it heated.

"Thanks."

Hardcastle gave a non-committal grunt. After a moment he said, almost off-handedly, "You know, that bottle feels pretty light. Seems like there's less pills in it."

McCormick had gotten up to fill a glass with water, and he'd just tossed back three aspirin when the judge had spoken. He washed the pills down with a long drink, using the time to formulate an answer. He was surprised when the truth came out.

"I ran out of aspirin in the gatehouse."

Hardcastle lifted the pot of stew from the stove, turning to the table. He began ladling stew into bowls, and spoke again without looking at his young friend.

"Did it ever occur to you to buy some more, instead of pilfering mine?"

Mark shrugged, not answering. How could he, when his answer was that going out to buy a replacement bottle of painkiller was tantamount to admitting something was wrong? Of course, he hadn't had any idea what _was_ wrong – why he'd been getting the recurring headaches and backaches, why he'd been feeling so worn out. He'd also noticed the unexplained bruises, and had been choosing his clothing so as to hide them from Hardcastle, forgoing cut-off shorts for sweatpants or jeans when doing the recent yardwork. He'd justified it as a temporary action – obviously whatever was going on wasn't serious and would soon pass. He'd quickly be back to fighting form, so there was no reason to get Hardcase all worked up over nothing.

That was before he'd heard of polycystic kidney disease.

The two men ate quietly. After stirring his stew idly for a few minutes, McCormick was surprised to find his appetite making an appearance. He was able to finish most of his bowl of stew, as well as a few pieces of bread. The aspirin had helped to dull the aches in his head and back, and he'd started to feel a little more like himself. Mark was working on draining his bottle of beer when the judge suddenly spoke.

"I think we need to talk about what happened in the garage."

McCormick rose with his bowl, taking it to the sink to rinse it out. "I just got a little overwhelmed," he responded, without facing the judge. "I'm okay now. I'm – "

"If you say you're 'fine' again –" Hardcastle slammed a fist on the table, jostling his bowl and the bottles of beer. "Don't tell me you're fine, don't tell me it's 'nothing.' You've been acting like a nut since this woman showed up, and that's not like you."

Mark turned around, leaning against the counter. He still didn't look at Hardcastle, instead studying the floor.

Milt waited a moment, and when he spoke again, his voice was more subdued. "I've told you before that I thought you were made of some pretty strong stuff. You had to be, to work out in this arrangement we made. It wouldn't have done either of us much good if you weren't able to hang tough when things got dicey. I know there isn't much that shakes you. So this is. . . I don't know. I don't even remember you being this bad when you got shot." The kid had been depressed then, frustrated and troubled by his long recovery. There had also been plenty of anger, directed at the men responsible. And some fear. The judge knew he'd had nightmares – he didn't fault the kid at all in that regard. Hardcastle had personally experienced those nightmares himself, after almost being killed in his own courtroom. And that's when it occurred to him. The last, and maybe only other time he'd seen McCormick this rattled, this unnaturally debilitated by desperation. . .

After a short pause, Milt verbalized his thoughts.

"But this 'behavior' does kinda remind me of how you were after Weed Randall."

Mark looked up then, his expression dark. "Behavior," he repeated.

Hardcastle shrugged. "Just calling it like I see it, kid," he said quietly.

McCormick walked back to the table, but didn't sit at first, instead placing a hand on the back of his chair, running it back and forth on the polished wood. "I don't know where to start. I mean, it's not just about what I found out today. There's a reason why seeing Marty threw me off my game, even before she dumped all that stuff in my lap." He lifted his head, looking Hardcastle in the eye. " It's kind of a long story."

Milt gestured at the chair. "So sit down and tell me. I'm not going anywhere."


	11. Chapter 11

_**Inheritance Tax**_ **by InitialLuv**

 **Chapter Eleven**

McCormick pulled out the chair opposite Hardcastle, reaching for his beer and finding the bottle nearly empty. He had barely sat down before he was up again, retrieving two more bottles from the refrigerator. He placed one in front of the judge, then sat to twist the top off his own bottle and take a long drink. When he put the bottle down, he saw Hardcastle frowning at him.

"What?"

"Just wondering if you really need a second beer. If your blood pressure's up. . . "

Mark looked steadily at the older man. "You want me to talk? Then, yeah, I _need_ this." He gestured at the bottle. "In fact, we don't have any more tequila hidden around here anywhere, do we?"

Hardcastle huffed. "One night of listening to your intoxicated jabbering was one night too many. And don't bring up the wine cellar, because we're not gonna go that route." He returned McCormick's steady gaze. "I'm not interested in the drunken version."

"It would be easier," Mark said softly. He took a deep breath, swallowed, and stared at the wood grain of the table.

"I've told you some about my uncle. How I stayed with him and my aunt for a little while after my mom died, until I got in trouble." McCormick looked up briefly, and Hardcastle nodded at him silently.

"And back when we found Nick Damion, I told you how he'd helped me when I was fourteen, that I had called him and he'd talked to me? I told you how I'd been in a pretty bad place then, close to the edge." _And not four months later, you almost went over it._

Hardcastle was nodding. "You did say something about getting in trouble, not having any friends," he recalled.

Mark sighed. "Yeah, I guess I was a loose cannon. There weren't many kids that wanted to hang around with me. I was angry all the time, getting into fights. But I wasn't always like that. It just got bad when my mom got sick."

Mark paused to take a drink, then rolled the bottle between his hands.

"We'd already had kind of a rough time. After my dad left, we had to move to a smaller apartment, and she sold a lot of stuff so we would have some money. The piano, the TV, some of the furniture. She had been working a lot, and I was home alone a lot. And one time when I was maybe nine or ten I tried to make myself a grilled cheese sandwich, and I started a fire in the kitchen. I was able to run to the next apartment and get someone to help me put it out – it wasn't that bad, but I was a kid and I was terrified." McCormick shook his head with a grimace. "When it was all over with, the landlord kicked us out. My mom had two weeks to find us someplace else to live. She decided maybe she should go home. That's how we ended up in Hoboken, above the laundromat. It was the cheapest thing she could find that was close to her family, her brother.

"I didn't really know my uncle, I'd never met him before that. My cousin, too – I met her for the first time. My mom and I went over to their house one day not long after we moved. My uncle was at work. My mom and my Aunt Brenda were talking in the living room and my cousin was supposed to be entertaining me." He smiled briefly. "I could tell she was pretty unhappy about having to hang out with a smart-mouthed punk kid, whether she was related to me or not.

"Well, I guess my mom and my aunt lost track of time, because all of a sudden my uncle was home. I heard him and my mom talking pretty loud, not really yelling but close enough. I went to leave my cousin's room and she pulled on my arm and held me back, and she had this weird look on her face. I just shook her hand off and went out to the living room. When I got out there I saw my mom was standing and facing my uncle, and she looked like she was ready to cry. When she saw me, she came and grabbed me, _hard_ , and pulled me out the door. I don't know if she ever went back there.

"But I did."

Mark stopped again, looking at Hardcastle's empty bowl. "You done with that? I can stick it in the dishwasher. And is the pot empty?"

Milt was ready to wave McCormick off, to tell him the dirty dishes weren't important in the whole scheme of things, and then realized that the younger man was using the after-dinner clean up as a break, so that he could collect himself. "Yeah, the pot's empty now," he said. "I think it's going to need to soak, though. I don't want it sitting in the half-full dishwasher with the crud drying on it."

Hardcastle saw something akin to gratefulness on McCormick's face as he collected the rest of the dirty dishes, and then set about rinsing and soaking and cleaning. When the table was empty of everything except their beer bottles, Mark sat again. He was quiet for several minutes, occasionally sipping on his beer, before he again took up the story.

"Things just seemed to go from bad to worse after we moved. It didn't matter how much my mom worked, there were always bills she couldn't pay. And then I wasn't any help – I just cost her even more money, whether it was clothes or doctor bills. . . That was when I hit Kenny von Bischoffshausen to keep him from stealing my lunch money, and then his brother broke my arm. I remember how mad she got at me. Before that, when I did something wrong, she'd usually lecture me, punish me, but then she'd give me a hug and say something like she didn't like the choices I'd made, but she still loved me." Mark looked at the judge with a kind of pleading. "I tried to explain that I only hit Kenny because we needed the money, that she couldn't keep giving me money for lunch just to have some bully steal it. But she wouldn't listen to me. She wouldn't let me explain, she just yelled at me for fighting. I mean yelled. She actually told me I was more trouble than I was worth." Mark's voice shook slightly. "Right after she said it she put her hand over her mouth, like she was trying to take it back, but it was too late.

"I was thirteen the first time my mom got sick. I didn't notice right away that she wasn't feeling well. I don't know if she was trying to hide it from me, or if I just wasn't paying attention. But then she started missing some work, and the bills really piled up. She was tired a lot, and stressed out and tense. She would blow up at me for the littlest thing. It was just . . . bad. I didn't realize until later what she'd been going through, how upset and scared she must've been.

"It was almost August when she went into the hospital. The doctors didn't know how long she'd need to be in there, and she was worried about me being alone in the apartment, since it was summer and I wasn't in school. So she convinced her brother and his wife to watch me. I was only there two weeks, but two days was too long."

McCormick took another drink, emptying the bottle. He studied the brown bottle for a moment, then lifted his eyes to look at the judge. Hardcastle sighed quietly, then pushed his unopened bottle toward McCormick.

"That's it, though. No more after that one. At least you've got something in your stomach now, to soak it up."

Mark nodded his thanks, taking the bottle but not twisting off the cap. He was feeling a little bleary, and he wasn't sure it was the beer, the aspirin, a combination of the two, or just the effects of reliving his past. Either way, he thought maybe he'd wait to start the third bottle until he was further into the story.

"I didn't really know what to think when I got to my aunt and uncle's. We'd only been there that one time, and I'd just seen my uncle for a few seconds before we left. That was about three years before. My aunt was fine, she got me set up in a spare room, showed me where everything was, told me we'd eat when my uncle got home. I remember sitting at the table, just amazed at how much food there was. My mom and I weren't exactly starving, but we kinda lived hand-to-mouth, and I was always hungry. So I got a little over-eager, and reached for something, and that was the first time he hit me.

"It was just so unexpected. He socked me in the head, so hard I actually saw stars. He said something like I needed to ask before I took food. It didn't matter – I wasn't hungry anymore. I was trying not to cry, and looking at my aunt and cousin, and neither of them would look at me. Neither of them tried to defend me. I could understand it with my cousin, she was only about a year older than me, but my aunt. . . That I just didn't get. At least, not then. When I got older it made more sense. I mean, I was only there temporarily. She had to live with the guy. "

Hardcastle broke in. "That was her choice. She was an adult."

McCormick shook his head earnestly. "No, Judge, it's not always that easy. You've seen that, you know what it's like to be stuck in an abusive relationship. She had a kid, and –"

"Yeah, that's right, she should have thought about her kid, and gotten her away from him!"

"Judge! Come on! She saw what my mother went through, raising a kid by herself. And he wasn't just physically abusive, he could make you feel about two feet tall. She didn't have any self-esteem, any confidence that she could make it on her own. She didn't think she had any choice!"

"She had a lot more choice than you, kid."

Mark's silence signified his agreement as much as if he'd spoken. He opened the beer, sooner than he had expected. There was still so much more.

"The next thing I got hit for was not making my bed up to his standards. Then my aunt had me take out the garbage, and the bag had a hole in the bottom, and some juice or something tracked across the floor. I came back in the house and my uncle grabbed me by the hair and slammed me down on the floor, so I could see the trail the bag had left. He had his knee in my back, so I couldn't move, and I couldn't breathe. And the whole time he's got me down there he's talking about how stupid I am, and how I'm just like my idiot of a father, and how I was such a screw-up no one else would take me in and I should be grateful for their 'hospitality.'" McCormick spoke the last word with such vehemence that Hardcastle looked at him with guarded apprehension. The open hatred he saw on his friend's face was not a common sight.

"After that he stopped giving reasons for why he hit me, and I lost track. It didn't take me long to figure out a pattern, though. If he was sober he hit harder, but if he was drunk he'd add in the verbal abuse. Sometimes I could get away and hide from him when he was drunk – I was small, and I was fast. But I couldn't get away from his words."

McCormick paused again, taking another drink. He shifted in his chair restlessly, again studying the table top.

"I decided the only way I'd survive was if I stayed out of his way. If he was home, I'd hang out on the streets. I couldn't go to the hospital, because they wouldn't even let me visit my mom unless there was an adult with me. I knew if I went back to our apartment that it would be the first place they'd look for me, so I just wandered the neighborhood. I'd sneak back in late at night, hoping my uncle was already passed out drunk. It worked for a couple of days. Then one night, my aunt had to go pick up my cousin from some slumber party – she'd called, wanting to come home. So my uncle had still been awake when I tried to sneak in. And he blindsided me. He'd already tied on a few so I was eventually able to get free, and I hid in a corner where he couldn't reach me. So he started in with the words. Told me how I was a worthless piece of crap and that I was probably the reason why my mother got sick."

Milt made an involuntary noise, a half-cough, half-sigh, and McCormick looked up. Hardcastle scowled slightly, then rose to grab a beer out of the fridge. Mark raised his eyebrows at his friend.

"Think I gave up on that one too early," the older man said, pointing to the bottle he'd passed to McCormick earlier.

"You ready to hear more?"

Hardcastle took a swig, then nodded silently.

"He did finally pass out. When my aunt and my cousin got home, I was still hiding there in the corner, and I'd fallen asleep. I think that really did something to my aunt, to see me like that. She sent my cousin to bed and then she got down on the floor with me and sat with me. She told me she was sorry, and that she'd try to protect me. And the second week wasn't as bad. By that time my mom was doing better, and I could go visit her. And any time my uncle started to get on my case, my aunt would try to distract him. Sometimes it worked. Not always." Mark shook his head, and the next words were barely above a whisper. "Not enough.

"After the second week my mom got out of the hospital, and we both went home. I didn't tell her what happened."

Milt had been taking a drink, and now he slammed his bottle down in agitation. "Why the hell not?!" he exploded.

McCormick looked at the judge mildly. "She had enough on her plate. She lost one of her jobs while she was in the hospital, and now there were doctor and hospital bills on top of everything else. I didn't see any point in telling her what a bastard her brother was. As far as I was concerned I was never going back there."

"Couldn't she tell what happened to you? He must've marked you up pretty good."

McCormick smiled grimly. "Yeah, but not on the face, or anywhere that would have been obvious. He was an old hand at making sure his handiwork was hidden. I was able to keep my mom from seeing the scars and bruises. Lots of jeans and long-sleeve shirts. A little uncomfortable in summer, but . . . " he trailed off, suddenly realizing he had been employing the same tactic to hide his unexplainable bruises from Hardcastle.

Mark gave his head a quick shake, as if to clear it, before going on. "You're probably right, Judge – I should have told her. Because after that happened, I went off the deep end. I was out of control, and she couldn't handle me. She still wasn't feeling well, and, oh, it was hell for both of us for a while. Things eventually got better, but they never got back to normal. She never really got better.

"I was just finishing up ninth grade when she started getting really bad again. I think we both knew what was going on, but neither of us would admit it. And when I realized what that meant, that if something happened to her that the only family I would have left was my uncle, I kind of lost it. That was when I called Nick Damion.

"We didn't have a phone, we couldn't afford it, but we'd use the one in the back of the laundromat for emergencies. It was after midnight when I snuck out of the apartment to break into the laundromat, and I used the phone to call the radio station, long distance. I was on the phone for over two hours. When I came back upstairs at about three in the morning, my mom didn't even ask me where I'd been. She'd stopped trying.

"She went back in the hospital a couple weeks later. And she never came back home."

McCormick drained the rest of his third bottle of beer, and then sat quietly. He stared unseeingly at the wall behind the judge, and Hardcastle saw that his eyes were glassy and unfocused. He could tell his friend was fading fast, although he wasn't sure if it was the stress of sharing the story, or the physical reaction of the aspirin and the alcohol.

"McCormick."

Mark blinked, seeming to come back from a far way off. He looked at Hardcastle, but didn't say anything. Milt studied him carefully.

"You with me here, kiddo?"

"I'm – I'm a little tired," Mark said slowly. "But I'm not done. I have to make you understand, tell you how Marty fits into all of this, and why seeing her today brought it all back."

"I don't know if that's a good idea," Hardcastle countered with a frown. "I think that's enough for now. You don't look so hot."

McCormick leaned back in his chair, pulling his fingers through his hair. "I don't feel so hot," he admitted.

Hardcastle snorted at the honest remark, which was proof enough that the young man obviously needed some rest. "I don't want you to make yourself sick thinking you have to explain things to me," he said next. "You can tell me later. Right now you need to take a break."

McCormick looked suddenly distressed. "If I don't tell you now, I don't know if I'll be able to."

But the judge was standing, and waiting for McCormick to follow his example. Mark didn't move, so Hardcastle took hold of the back of his chair and pulled it out from the table. "Let's go," he said roughly. "You can pick the sofa or a spare room, but either way, you're gonna lie down."

It ended up being the sofa. Once the judge had gotten McCormick out of the chair and down the hall, it was apparent the man was practically asleep on his feet. If Hardcastle hadn't been beside him to grab his arm, Mark would have gone sprawling down the den steps. Hardcastle directed McCormick to the sofa, then went to retrieve a throw and a pillow. When he returned to the den a few minutes later, McCormick was already snoring softly.


	12. Chapter 12

**_Inheritance Tax_ by InitialLuv**

 **Chapter Twelve**

Hardcastle covered McCormick with the throw, placing the pillow near the curly head. He straightened up, then regarded the sleeping man somberly as he rubbed his chin in thought.

McCormick's blunt and vivid narrative had shaken him. The younger man had told him he'd briefly stayed with his aunt and uncle after his mother's passing, and had sporadically mentioned his uncle's fondness of speaking with his fists. But other than an occasional disparaging remark about Douglas McCormick, that was as far into that part of his life Mark had previously been willing to share. Milt had respected that, and had recognized it as well. There were stories in his past that McCormick didn't know, and didn't need to know. Memories that he kept stored away in the farthest, smallest corner of his mind, buried and hidden in a locked closest to which he had lost the key. It wasn't that he thought Mark wouldn't understand – on the contrary, he thought McCormick was probably one of the few people who _would_ understand those crushing, debilitating memories of grief and loss, and why Hardcastle refused to acknowledge them. But where Hardcastle's memories stayed safely behind their locked door, Mark's had come exploding to the forefront. Milt still wasn't exactly sure why McCormick had been summarily assaulted by the painful recollections, and he was disturbed to realize he needed to know. The kid's behavior today had been nothing short of scary, starting with the slapstick fall from the pickup, followed with the panic attack and near-collapse in the den, and ending with the uncontrolled outburst in the garage. Just one of those events would have given the judge pause, but for all of them to take place, in roughly four hours' time, indicated that something was adversely affecting the young man. Even the possibility that McCormick was sick – _Possibility? Have you_ ** _looked_** _at the kid?_ – didn't explain the utter stress and despondency that seemed to now be consuming him.

Milt moved toward his desk, moving slowly and quietly even though he knew it was unlikely he'd awaken his friend accidentally. McCormick usually slept like a rock, even without the assistance of alcohol, although he hadn't when he'd first moved in at the estate. Still being guarded and edgy in his new living arrangement, as well as unbelieving of the good fortune of a little house and big bed of his own, Mark had slept little, and what sleep he did get was restless and uneasy. It was one of the reasons he often rose late, in those early weeks. But it hadn't taken long before the exertions of the yardwork, in combination with the mental and physical demands that came with hunting down criminals, had Mark climbing into bed exhausted and sleeping dreamlessly until a basketball could be heard slamming into the backboard outside his window. At some point after that the sleep came not because of exhaustion, but because he felt safe, content, and home. And that meant he now slept like a rock.

As Hardcastle passed the chair McCormick had been sitting in earlier, he saw the envelope of pictures that Mark had set down on the chairside table. Retrieving the envelope, Hardcastle dropped down heavily in his desk chair.

He was used to being worried about McCormick; he had come to accept it as habit. Yet these past two years, when the ex-con ex-race car driver had become a full-time law student, the worrying had lost some of its intensity. There were still things to be concerned about, and one of the central concerns he'd had, unexpectedly, was that McCormick was too fixated on his studies. Mark had been obsessed that first year, even more than when he'd been secretly attending part time, and hadn't wanted to divulge his enrollment to the judge because he'd been convinced he'd fail. McCormick had become acutely aware of how unlike he was from the majority of the student body, in age, background, and prior education, and he'd decided that he needed to prove himself. That meant studying practically round-the-clock, whether it was in study groups, with a professor during office hours, or with Milt himself. Mark would wander into the den or the kitchen or out on the patio, accompanied by a textbook or a notebook filled with lecture notes. At first the rookie law student would be hesitant, making small talk until Hardcastle finally got frustrated and forced him to ask whatever question he had. It hadn't taken long before McCormick became confident and knowledgeable in their discussions, using his natural easy chatter to skillfully state his opinions and conclusions. Hardcastle had known the kid was sharp, but he had to admit that the constant reviewing and debating had transformed the clever, resourceful young man into a law school standout. That had been obvious – even to a pessimistic McCormick – when he finished out his first year with a 3.8 GPA. And Milt had found his worrying dialing back even more.

And now there was this. A woman he'd never heard of shows up to shake the kid to his core, for reasons still unknown to Milt. In the short time Martina had been at the estate, McCormick's emotions had run the gamut from suspicion to contention to affection. Adding in the fact that he was apparently a father – something Hardcastle was still trying to wrap his head around – to a young girl who was ill, not to mention living across the country. . . Hardcastle had felt his concern rise exponentially as Martina's presence and revelations had prompted McCormick's mood swings and physical breakdown.

Milt pulled out the photographs, beginning to examine them anew. He took time to study the backgrounds, the clothing, the facial expressions, the body language. He flipped the photos over to see descriptions handwritten on the back: _Coney Island 1988._ _Bronx Zoo 1986._ _Olivia's 9_ _th_ _B-day_.

As Hardcastle turned over the school photo, he saw the handwriting on the back was different from the rest – instead of neat, precise printing, the writing on the flipside of the school photo was a young person's inexperienced cursive. _Olivia Danielle Rivera_ , it read, _3_ _rd_ _Grade_.

Milt replaced the photos in the envelope, suddenly feeling guilty, like he was intruding on Mark's privacy. He rose up out of his chair slightly so he could check on the kid. At some point McCormick had grabbed the pillow, although instead of resting his head on it, he had his arms wrapped around it, pressing it to his face. As it was just past seven in the evening it was still quite light out, and the den was fairly bright. Milt spun his chair around and closed several shutters, doing his best to darken the room. He thought it might have been a better choice to get McCormick into a spare room, where he could've drawn the drapes and made the environment more suited to a peaceful sleep. But after witnessing the sudden fatigue that had enveloped Mark, the judge had been convinced that it would have been a dangerous excursion to get the kid up the staircase.

Hardcastle found himself recalling certain phrases of the story McCormick had shared. _"That was the first time he hit me." "If he was sober he hit harder."_ McCormick was right, the judge had seen the effects of abusive relationships, both as a cop and in his courtroom. He knew how the victim in the relationship often felt emotionally and literally trapped, fearful that any attempt to leave would risk retribution from the abuser. Or sometimes, if the relationship was severed, the victim would be just as afraid of rebuilding a life alone. McCormick had defended his aunt's initial inability to protect him from his uncle's rages, claiming she was suffering abuse by the man as well, and Hardcastle grudgingly realized McCormick was probably correct. But he couldn't shake the image of a young Mark hiding in a corner, with his uncle, not able to reach, still able to injure by hurling taunts and insults at a scared, defenseless kid.

Hardcastle was so consumed by the vision that the sudden ringing of the phone made him jump. He grabbed for the receiver before it could ring a second time, and unceremoniously growled, "Yeah, Hardcastle here."

" _. . .Hello?"_

The judge remotely acknowledged the hesitant female voice, as he watched Mark closely to see if he'd heard the phone. The slumbering form on the couch didn't seem to have moved an inch.

"Yeah, who's this?"

" _Judge Hardcastle? It's Martina."_

Hardcastle scowled as he answered, "Milt, Martina. Just Milt."

" _Okay. . . Milt. Is Mark there?"_

Hardcastle sent another anxious look at the man in question. Still no change. He sighed and relaxed slightly.

"Yeah, he's here, but he's asleep. I'm not too sure I want to wake him up. Today's been . . . rough on him."

The response from the phone was immediate. _"No, don't wake him up. I just wanted to tell him when I was leaving. Can you tell him for me?"_

Milt reached for a pad of paper and a pen, writing down the information as Martina relayed it.

" _I can call again when I'm back in New York."_

"Yeah, he'd probably appreciate that, you keeping in touch," Hardcastle said, and was mildly surprised to hear the sharpness in his voice.

There was a moment of silence on Martina's end, most likely as she interpreted the tone of the judge's remark.

" _Did he get to the doctor?"_

"Yeah, we went over not long after you left. They ran some tests."

" _. . . And?"_

"Well, he has to wait for the results. There wasn't a lot they could tell him." Now it was Hardcastle's turn to hesitate. "He did mention his blood pressure was higher than normal."

" _How much higher?"_

Milt shook his head, momentarily forgetting the gesture was lost during a phone conversation. "He didn't say. But that could be stress, being upset, you know."

" _Do you believe that?"_

Another sigh, this one born of doubt rather than relief. "I really don't know," he admitted.

" _Milt. Please – take care of him."_

"Don't worry," he assured her, although the words sounded hollow. "Taking care of him is my job."

* * *

After ending the phone call, Hardcastle meandered over to an armchair in front of the television, grabbed the remote, and then began to absentmindedly flip through the channels. He'd had an inner, almost tangible pull keeping him in the den, even before Martina's entreaty to take care of McCormick. Milt didn't feel right about retiring to his bedroom – he didn't want Mark to wake up in the middle of night, alone, confused, and possibly hung-over. McCormick wasn't typically a lightweight drinker, but the sudden exhaustion that had hit the young man – after just a few beers – had further convinced Milt that the kid was ill. So the judge decided to settle in and see if he could at least find something worth watching – maybe a baseball game, and after that, a decent old movie. He figured if Mark was still snoring after one or two a.m., then he'd probably be out until morning.

It was around eleven, while Hardcastle was enjoying an episode of _Maverick_ , when the initial sounds of distress came from the man on the sofa. At first Hardcastle didn't notice the soft whimpers and pleas, until McCormick moved slightly on the sofa and the pillow fell to the floor. Seeing the movement out of the corner of his eye, Milt roused himself and looked in Mark's direction.

McCormick was shifting restlessly, an agitated expression creasing his face. His eyes were closed, and he was obviously dreaming. After another muttered word, which could have been "Please," the young man appeared to relax, and quieted. Hardcastle watched him for a moment more, then turned back to the television.

"NO! Don't! Please stop!"

The abrupt clarity of the shouts, after the earlier unintelligible mumbles, brought Hardcastle out of his chair and to McCormick's side. The man's eyes were still tightly closed, but now his head was shaking back and forth violently while he thrashed on the couch. Unable and unwilling to watch the torture of the nightmare, Milt reached out to take McCormick's shoulder, shaking him.

McCormick was moving before his eyes were fully open. With a pained gasp he bolted upright and scuttled back as far as possible from the judge, to sit with his back against the far arm of the couch and his knees pulled up in the tangle of the blanket. He held his hands out in a defensive manner, and the look in his eyes was pure fear.

Hardcastle unconsciously moved back, raising his hands in pacification. "Hey – calm down. It's okay, kiddo. Just a dream."

McCormick was breathing heavily, and he lowered his hands slowly, but still remained in the cowering position. "What – what's going on?" he asked shakily.

Hardcastle lowered his own hands, mirroring Mark's movements. "Just a nightmare, sport."

Mark ran trembling hands over his face, then looked at Hardcastle with a sudden intensity.

"You can't _do_ that. You can't grab me like that."

"What was I supposed to do?" Hardcastle grumbled, miffed. "Let you stay in that nightmare? Have you go through that again?" There was no need to define his vague words.

"Then holler at me. Just don't _touch_ me." McCormick let his head rest on the back of the couch, and he closed his eyes.

"I'm sorry."

The quiet apology, something not often heard from Hardcastle, caused Mark to open his eyes. He looked at his friend, standing at the head of the couch with a solemn expression and a downcast gaze.

"I know, Judge. It was just a _really_ bad dream." McCormick slowly stretched out from his protective pose, so that he was now sitting up with his feet resting on the floor. He bundled up the throw blanket and tossed it aside.

"What time is it?"

Hardcastle nodded at the clock on the mantle. "A little past eleven."

McCormick lowered his brows in thought. "When did I fall asleep? "

"Around six, I think."

"Five hours?" Mark said, disconcerted.

The judge shrugged. "I think you needed the rest."

"Well, I hope it was enough," McCormick muttered, "because I don't think I'm going back to sleep anytime soon." He rose to his feet, and swayed a little. Milt automatically reached to steady him, then deliberately pulled back. Mark bent slightly to grab the arm of the couch, and looked sideways at the judge.

"I didn't mean you can't ever touch me," McCormick amended softly. "Just don't wake me up like that." He straightened again, and slowly began to leave the den.

"Where are you goin'?"

Mark waved a hand backward without turning. "Bathroom. Three beers."

Hardcastle forced himself to return to the chair in front of the television, but he had lost interest in watching James Garner. He heard McCormick's slow steps as he returned to the den, but then there was a tense silence, and Hardcastle couldn't stop himself from turning in curiosity. He saw McCormick standing in front of the desk, frowning slightly. Then Mark reached for the envelope of pictures still sitting on the desk.

"Listen, McCormick – "

Mark cut him off with a jerk of his hand. He came to sit in the armchair near the judge, and pulled out the photographs. "You find anything interesting?" he asked tiredly, as he shifted through the pictures.

"Actually, I did. Look at the back of the school picture."

McCormick found the photograph and turned it over. For a moment he stared at the handwriting, his face unreadable. When he finally looked up at Hardcastle, it was with a beaming smile.

"She named her after me," he said in wonder. "I didn't even realize she knew my middle name. I don't remember telling her."

"Well, I guess if she was gonna use your name, it's better that it was Daniel and not something like Howie or Ernest."

McCormick's smile faded. "Yeah, I don't think my mother would have been that mean."

Hardcastle rubbed his hand under his nose, bothered by how the kid had jumped from joyful pride to muted grief in the space of ten seconds. He tried to find a way to change the subject.

"Did you hear the phone before, when you were sleeping?"

"Uh, no. I was _sleeping_ , Hardcase. Who called?"

"Martina. She wanted to tell you when she was flying out tomorrow."

The next emotion on the mood swing parade was anger. "And you didn't wake me up?"

"No, I didn't," Hardcastle countered brusquely. "You needed the sleep. And Marty said the same thing, she told me not to wake you. I wrote down her flight info. She's leaving at 7:20, so she's gotta be at the airport pretty early. I don't think you're gonna be able to talk to her before she leaves." Hardcastle softened his voice. "She did say she'd call once she got back home to New York."

"Yeah, we'll see how that goes," McCormick grumbled. "At least I have her number. But if her mother answers, this time I'm hanging up." He looked at Hardcastle with a wary expression. "After dinner, I kind of cut the story short. I didn't get to tell you everything."

Hardcastle cleared his throat. "I've been thinking about that, kid. Listen." The judge leaned forward in his chair, looking intently at his friend. "What you told me before, I appreciate you sharing it with me. I know that was hard for you, and it was hard _on_ you. And if it's too much to finish it, I respect that. You don't have to tell me everything. I don't tell you everything, you know that."

"Yeah, but you're not having panic attacks and throwing up, or flipping out and destroying the garage."

Hardcastle gave a conceding nod. "Okay, that's true, but I kinda understand where you're coming from now. If you were keeping those things inside and they all came out when you saw Martina, well, that's a lot to process."

McCormick snorted. "You don't know the half of it. That's the whole point. You don't know why Marty set it all off. And it's not just that I need to tell you – I think I need to talk it out for me. I have to get this settled. I mean, I can't show up in New York to meet my kid like this. I gotta get some control back."

"I don't think we should be talking about New York yet. Let's get past tomorrow and seeing Charlie first, before you make any decisions."

"Decision's already made," McCormick responded stubbornly. "It's just the timing I haven't figured out yet. But it's gonna be sooner rather than later. I'm not letting her grow up any more without a father. I can't do that, Judge. I can't let history repeat on this."

Milt shook his head in exasperation. "Kid, it's nowhere near the same thing! There's a difference between someone purposefully abandoning a kid and someone not even knowing their kid existed. You can't compare yourself to Sonny here."

McCormick didn't respond, instead just looking at the judge with a stony glare. Hardcastle returned the stare, but it soon became clear they were at an impasse.

"Fine." Hardcastle waved a hand in concession. "But you're not going alone. Not if you're sick."

McCormick's mouth turned up in a brief grin. "Well, yeah. I mean, Olivia's gotta meet her Grandpa Milt, right?" The grin was quickly replaced with a grim expression. "And I could use a buffer, when it comes to Marty's mom. Or just someone to reel me in." He leaned back in his chair, his hands still holding the envelope of photos. "You know, if Sandra hadn't wrecked things for us, I might have been in Olivia's life from the start."

"How did she. . . What happened?" Milt asked, interest overcoming his earlier reassurances that McCormick didn't need to finish the difficult recollections.

Mark laid the photos down on the table between their chairs, settled himself until he was as comfortable as was possible, and began to talk.


	13. Chapter 13

**I had plans to reach a specific plot point in this chapter, but it's already so long I wanted to post it for anyone who has been waiting for an update. So I guess I'll have to wait until Chapter Fourteen to get to where I hoped Thirteen would take us.

 **-ck**

* * *

 _ **Inheritance Tax**_ **by InitialLuv**

 **Chapter Thirteen**

"When my mom went into the hospital the second time, we both knew it wasn't good," Mark started. "School was out for summer break, and I was working then, at a car wash. I'd been there a couple months. It wasn't glamorous or anything, but we needed the money. And sometimes my boss would have 'errands' for me to run, extra jobs that brought in more cash." McCormick gave the judge an unapologetic look. "You do what you have to. I didn't really think about it. Especially after she was in the hospital, and all I had to live on was my income. The rent and electricity and everything had to get paid somehow."

"You stayed in the apartment by yourself?"

McCormick nodded. "I was older – just turned fifteen. And I'd been by myself a lot anyway, with her working all the time. I told her as much." His expression was bleak. "We had an argument about that, and I was pretty hard on her.

"It was like the second day she was in the hospital, and she started to talk to me about how long she might be there, and how we had 'decisions' to make. I told her I was fine, I'd just stay at the apartment and keep things together until she got back home. We were both still in denial at that point, I think. Anyway, she didn't want me to stay at the apartment, she didn't want me working at the car wash, she didn't want me hanging out with Bill Bauer and Trigg and the guys. . . Well, she was right about Trigg in the end. But we just started arguing, and the main point was that she didn't trust me on my own, and there was no way I was going down that road again, bunking with my uncle indefinitely." McCormick smirked suddenly. "Not quite the same 'indefinitely' arrangement you offered, Judge."

Hardcastle returned the smirk, but didn't interrupt. Mark continued.

"So here we are in her hospital room, yelling at each other. Well, I was yelling, she didn't have enough energy. And I got so worked up. . . We both knew it was bad, and she probably wasn't going to get better, but neither of us had the strength to say it yet. So we just fought about the things we could, and we said things we didn't mean to say. And that's when I told her I'd be fine on my own, that I was used to it, because it wasn't like I'd really had her around much anyway." McCormick exhaled, closing his eyes. "You know how she told me I wasn't 'worth the trouble,' and how she wanted to take it back? That's how it was. As soon as it was out of my mouth, and I saw the look on her face, how much I'd hurt her. . . I wanted to apologize, to tell her I'd never felt that way. I knew everything she did, working two jobs, was to try and make things better for me. Before we got evicted in Atlantic City and moved to Hoboken, she even had me in Catholic school for a while, and that tuition must have been expensive. But it was important to her, so she found a way to pay for it. She hardly did anything for herself. She was. . . She was a _great_ mother. And I was a rotten son. She was right. I was a lot of trouble."

"Kiddo –"

"Judge, just let me finish," Mark pleaded.

Hardcastle held up a hand. "No, McCormick, listen to me. You can't beat yourself up. I don't think she felt that way. You're right – people say things they don't mean when they're upset. The two of us are a testament to that. But you know how you really felt about your mother, and I'm pretty sure she didn't think you were trouble. I think she was worried about what would happen to you when she was gone. She knew she didn't have much time, and she wanted to try and make sure you made the right choices, so you would grow up the way she wanted."

"I used to think about that when I was in prison," McCormick said. "How I was glad she couldn't see what had happened to me, how I had screwed up my life. She would have been devastated."

"And what do you suppose she'd think of where you are now?" Hardcastle pressed. "The way you've turned your life around? Helping me bring in the bad guys, being in law school? Hell, even giving your dad a second chance."

The words came slow, but they were eventually uttered. "I think she'd be proud."

"Damn straight."

Mark was pleasantly surprised by the declaration. He smiled wistfully, then took a reinforcing breath before picking up where he had left off.

"Well, after I said that awful thing to her, I had to get out. I knew what I'd done, and I didn't think I could ever fix it, so I just bolted. I took off out of her hospital room, and I ran right into this poor candy striper, this girl who was volunteering, you know? She was outside the room, and I slammed into her, knocked us both to the floor. I didn't even check to see if she was okay, I just picked myself up and kept going. All I was thinking about was getting out of there, getting away from what was happening. I didn't want to use the elevator, and be stuck with other people, so I went down the stairs. I only made it about half a flight before I lost it.

"That was the first time I had a panic attack. I just collapsed, and I didn't know what was happening. I couldn't breathe, I couldn't see, and I thought my heart was going to explode. I honestly thought I was having a heart attack." He shuddered slightly. "That's what it feels like. At least for me. You think you're going to die. Or something terrible's gonna happen. Or both."

"So that's what you meant." Hardcastle had spoken the words before he realized it.

"What?" McCormick asked, momentarily distracted. "What are you talking about?"

Milt shrugged, trying to appear casual. "Well, before. When you were. . .when it happened. You were saying something about how you were gonna die."

"I did?"

"You don't remember?"

"No. I remember trying to hit you, and then Marty talking me down. In between, it's kind of fuzzy. I don't even know how long . . ." Mark looked at the judge inquisitively.

"Maybe ten minutes total, maybe less. It seemed like a lot longer, though."

"Trust me, Judge, it feels like that from my end, too." McCormick grimaced. "And that first one, I thought that was it. I really thought I was dying.

"So I'm sitting there, falling apart, and after a while I hear this voice, someone talking to me. Telling me I'm okay, that I just need to calm down. Some nurse or someone who found me and realized what was going on. It was basically the same thing, over and over: I was all right, I just needed to calm down and breathe, I was going to be okay. And eventually I was. I wasn't great, but I sure as hell wasn't dying. It took some time, but finally I was able to get myself together and look at the person who had helped me." McCormick smiled in remembrance. "It was the candy striper I'd run into. I'd knocked her down, hadn't even stopped to see if she was hurt, and she'd followed me, to make sure _I_ was okay. She'd been there almost from the start, talking to me, trying to get me to settle down. I'd been so out of it I didn't even know she was there."

McCormick stopped, looking at Hardcastle with a frank gaze.

"That was Marty."

Milt looked back, surprise on his face slowly mingling with understanding. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. Great story to tell the kid, huh? 'I ran into your mom, literally, in a hospital, and then I puked my guts out in a garbage can.' I think your story of how you met Nancy is a little better."

Hardcastle grinned. "When you're right, you're right, kiddo." He sobered slightly, thinking. "But I have a feeling you losing your lunch didn't scare her away."

"No. She got all Florence Nightingale on me. Took me down to the cafeteria, got me some 7UP to settle my stomach. She stayed with me until she knew I would be okay. And the next time I came in to see my mom, Marty was there. She'd been visiting with my mom, brought her some flowers, but it had been pretty obvious she was waiting for me. At first I was irritated, thought she was hovering. I mean, she was only a year older than me, if that, and I already had my mother asking me all these questions about where I'd been or who I'd been with. I didn't need another person watching me like a hawk.

"But after a couple days, I started looking for her.

"She worked in the hospital coffee shop most mornings, and after the lunch rush was over she'd do the candy striping thing. Marty worked pretty much the same hours as her mom – Sandra was a nurse there, in maternity. Well, I got to know Marty's schedule, and if I was at the hospital in the morning I'd stop by the coffee shop. Sometimes when I went to visit my mother after work, I'd roam the hallways first to see if Marty was still there. It got so that I went to the hospital more to see Marty than my mom," McCormick admitted with chagrin.

"It's just that being with Marty was _normal_. When I was with her, it didn't seem like my life was falling to pieces. It's not like I forgot that my mom was sick and that I was practically living on my own, but for the first time I didn't feel so lost. Marty was the best thing that could have happened to me then. She. . . she made me want to be _better_."

Hardcastle hmmphed softly, and Mark stopped, his eyebrows raised in silent question.

"Hate to tell you this, sport, but since she showed up here, you haven't been 'better.' If anything, you've been the opposite." Hardcastle spoke quietly, but his opinion was clear.

"But that's not Marty's fault," Mark said earnestly. "The things that happened, what set me off – she didn't have any control over them. She was just guilty by association."

"So she didn't have anything to do with keeping the kid from you? Whose decision was that, do you think?"

"Her mother's," Mark answered instantly, his voice and eyes hard. He tensed his arms and clenched his fists, breathing deeply. "But I don't think Marty really fought her on it, in the end. The timing sucked." He exhaled, and nodded reluctantly. "Okay, I'll give you that, Judge. And I guess getting that news, on top of all the memories that cropped up, is what kinda pushed me over the edge today. Yesterday? Whatever."

Milt looked at the clock, curious himself. It was after midnight. In roughly nine or ten hours, they'd hopefully have the news from Charlie. He felt an anxious pang in the pit of his stomach, and wondered himself if he'd get much sleep tonight. He had a feeling both he and McCormick would be struggling with insomnia for the rest of the night.

Mark shifted in his chair, crossing his leg. He idly played with the cuff of his jeans as he continued talking.

"We were only together for a couple months. When school started we didn't get to see each other as much. We lived in different neighborhoods, went to different schools. She'd be at the hospital on weekends, and if I wasn't working we'd try to hang out. But then things fell apart. It was like one thing happened that triggered the next thing, and so on. Like dominoes.

"My mom was in really bad shape. And I wasn't doing much better. They'd shut off the electricity at the apartment, and I knew it was just a matter of time before I couldn't pay the rent, either. I started skipping school so I could work more. I'd only been back to school for maybe two weeks, anyway. I figured it would be a while before they missed me. So I was at work when the hospital called the school to try and reach me."

McCormick adjusted his posture again, lowering the one leg and then crossing the other. He rubbed his arms, remotely aware of the pain as his hands brushed the fresh bruises.

"I got off work at about three, and took the bus to the hospital. I thought if I just showed up at the same time I would've if I'd been at school, she wouldn't realize I'd skipped. The day before she'd actually been better, more like herself, so I thought if I showed up too late or too early that she'd be with it enough to call me on it, and I was hoping to avoid that. I got to the hospital, and I go to open the door to her room – and it's empty."

McCormick stopped, suddenly aware of how hard it was to breathe, how hard it was to move.

Hardcastle watched the rigid pose and drawn face with dread. He knew what was coming, he'd seen the empty room and made-up bed himself. He'd been there beside Nancy at the end, holding her limp hand in his two strong ones, and after she'd passed he'd eventually returned to her room to retrieve her few personal items. The freshly cleaned and suddenly impersonal room had caught Milt by surprise, and he'd collapsed into the bedside chair, the one he had occupied almost non-stop for the past three weeks. His sudden wrenching sobs had seemed to come from the very bottom of his soul.

Milt saw a slow motion break McCormick's paralysis: one hand traveling up to his neck, to touch the silver chain that hung there. Mark ran the chain through his fingers, grasped the St. Jude medal between his thumb and forefinger. His voice when he started talking was toneless and fragile.

"I just stood there. I couldn't understand it. She'd been better. I had this crazy thought that maybe she'd been discharged, that she'd be at home waiting for me. Or that maybe it was all just a bad dream." McCormick shook his head sadly. "Yeah, it was a bad dream, all right.

"The hospital staff had been watching for me. I was standing there in the doorway, and someone came up behind me, an orderly or a resident or someone. I don't remember. I just felt a hand on my shoulder, and I flipped out. I turned around and slugged the guy. I laid him out, one punch. I felt it in my hand the next day." Mark flexed his right hand absently. "And then I did what I usually did, what worked for me back then – I ran.

"I ran out the hospital and just kept running. I didn't have any idea where I was going, and I don't know how long I wandered the streets. I know it got dark. And then somehow, I ended up at Marty's. She already knew what had happened. Her mother had called her from the hospital and told her. Sandra was working a late shift, and wasn't home yet, and she had told Marty to call her if I showed up. Marty said her mother was worried about me, and wanted to make sure I was all right, and that I should stay there." McCormick's face twisted in anger. "I actually believed it, believed that Sandra might be a decent person after all. But about an hour after Marty called her, her mother showed up with a social worker and a cop. She turned me in."

Hardcastle looked narrowly at his friend. "I take it she wasn't your number-one fan. What, did she just hate you on principle?"

McCormick shrugged listlessly. "She didn't think I was good enough for Marty. I mean, come on, Judge, I wasn't exactly the poster boy for 'The Kind of Boy You Want Your Daughter to Date.'" He heightened his voice to an announcer's tone as he spoke the faux slogan, and accompanied it with air quotes. Compared to Mark's typical humor it was poor, sarcastic fare, but it was an attempt, and Hardcastle chuckled. He figured he owed the kid that much.

"I don't think Marty's mother liked me from the start. I was kind of known as a trouble-maker at the hospital, especially after my mom and I had that fight. And when Sandra found out Marty and I were hanging out, I think she kept tabs on us, had her co-workers spy on us. She didn't trust me, she didn't want anything to do with me, and she decided I wasn't worthy of her daughter. I bet she and my uncle would have had great conversations about how I was a shady, two-bit delinquent."

McCormick grew silent again, looking in the direction of the television. He vaguely recognized the old western movie now playing on the small screen. Milt had turned down the volume earlier, when Mark had still been sleeping. McCormick watched a decidedly quiet gunfight for a few moments, until there was the requisite scene of a man falling to his death from a rooftop.

"And that's where I ended up, after everything got sorted out – I was sent back to my aunt and uncle. My cousin had moved out. She was living with a friend. I was kind of glad for that, that she'd gotten out. My Aunt Brenda wasn't so lucky. I think it was even harder for her, after Annie left. She was . . . different. She didn't try as hard to protect me from my uncle this time, but sometimes she didn't even know what was happening. She was out of it a lot."

"Out of it? What's that mean?" Hardcastle asked, slightly alarmed that the woman might have fallen victim to the same addiction as her husband. "Booze?"

"Nah. Pills. Valium. But I don't really blame her." He could recall staring transfixed at the little blue pill she had placed in his palm, remotely noticing how the "V" cut-out in the middle of the tablet had looked like a tiny heart.

Mark had grown increasingly bitter and disturbed in the time between his mother's death and her funeral, culminating in physical defiance on the day of the latter event. He'd even pushed his aunt, hard, against a table when she had attempted to prevent the teen from striking his uncle. Mark's punishment for the push, and for his wild swing at his uncle, had been swift, and not unexpected: a smack in the head that had sent him to the floor, followed by sharp kicks in the ribs. When even that typical discipline hadn't quieted Mark's agitation, his aunt had retrieved the bottle of medication from her purse, and had encouraged him to take a dose. His acceptance to her suggestion had been a last, desperate resort.

Less than two hours later, the three of them were driving to the funeral. Mark had been sitting docilely in the back seat, blearily wondering just why he'd been so upset.

Hardcastle was muttering angrily. "You would think the doctor who prescribed her the pills coulda seen what was going on, and gotten her some help, instead of just shoving drugs at her."

McCormick forced aside his memories of that day, not sure that he could handle that, along with everything else. "Yeah," he answered the judge, "but I'm pretty sure my aunt wouldn't have asked for help. She probably figured my uncle only hit her because she deserved it. That's what I – what she felt, I bet. I mean, it makes sense."

Hardcastle had noticed McCormick's quick pronoun change. "Doesn't make sense to me," he said, waiting to see if the kid would pick up the thread.

It took a moment, but Mark didn't disappoint. "That's because you never got abused," he replied quietly.

"You thought you deserved it." Milt's voice was just as quiet.

McCormick didn't confirm or deny the statement. He bypassed the topic, instead choosing to continue his story.

"So with my aunt not up to running interference, I was kind of a sitting duck. I tried to stay out of my uncle's way, but that didn't work out too great. And after a while, I just got fed up. I decided to fight back. I was older, and stronger, and I thought I could hold my own." McCormick winced. "And oh, I just made things so much worse."

His next words were cautious. "You know how I got picked up for joyriding, ended up in juvie?" He waited for Hardcastle to acknowledge the question with a nod. "That was when it happened. I couldn't hack it anymore. I ran. I knew it would be faster, and I could get farther, if I had a car. So. . . I got a car.

"I drove around for a while, just feeling free and powerful. I was gonna go back to my neighborhood, meet up with the guys. I figured they'd be at the bowling alley. We used to hang out there until they closed, and then goof in the parking lot until the owner came out and started yelling at us. But at some point I changed my mind, and I went to Marty's instead. It was pretty late, but I convinced her to sneak out, and she came to sit in the car with me.

"I told her I couldn't go back to my aunt and uncle's place. She knew why – I had told her about my uncle, that night after my mother died. Anyway, I said I was taking off. I didn't know where I was headed, but I didn't care. I had a few personal things I'd grabbed from the apartment, a little money, and a car. Okay, so it wasn't my car," he acquiesced with a sheepish grin, "but that was a minor point.

"I asked her to come with me. She didn't even think about it, didn't try to let me down gently. She didn't have any reason to run. She was living in a nice house with a mother who wasn't sick and who had a good job. Marty's father had died a few years back, but he'd had life insurance, and they'd been pretty much okay. Sandra just went from being a part-time nurse to being full-time. They hadn't had to uproot their lives like my mom and I had after Sonny left us. It hit me then, how different we were, and how we wanted different things. Marty wanted to graduate, go to college, start a family. You know, have a normal life. I was just trying to survive. I think that was when I kind of gave up on us.

"Well, it was probably a good thing Marty didn't come with me. Because about ten minutes after I left her house I got pulled over by the cops. Of course I tried to con them that I was sixteen, and that I had permission to borrow the car. But considering how I didn't have a license, and since my uncle was the one that had called it in, I think they already had a bunk with my name on it in juvie."

"What do you mean, your uncle called it in?" Hardcastle asked, feeling he had missed something. "How did he know you'd swiped a car?"

"More like 'misappropriated,'" McCormick hedged. Milt answered that with a frown that simply said it was too late at night to be playing games. Mark sighed.

"The car I boosted was my uncle's." When Hardcastle just stared at him, obviously surprised, Mark allowed a grim smile. "How do you not know this? You know everything else about my checkered past."

"Not all. Some guesswork. Especially your juvenile records." Hardcastle backtracked. "So he called the cops on you, got you picked up?"

"Yeah. That was the last domino to fall. First it was my mother dying, and Marty's mom turning me in, then ending up back at my uncle's. Later, it was getting shot down by Marty. The final thing was getting caught for taking the car. I spent the next two years in and out of the system: juvie, foster homes, a group home. . . And when I finally had a chance to get out, I didn't look back. Headed down to Florida and tried to forget about Jersey City – until my uncle died five years later. I came back home for the funeral. That was about ten years ago."

"You came all the way back from Florida for his funeral?" Hardcastle asked, disbelieving. "The guy who didn't give a damn about you and treated you like dirt?"

"Well how else was I going to get the sport coat and the bottle cap collection he'd left me?" McCormick rolled his eyes. "I didn't go for him, Judge. I went for my mom. She would have wanted me to go. It was her brother, the only family she'd had, the only family I had. It was. . . the right thing to do."

Milt nodded, impressed. "That was pretty decent of you. Couldn't have been easy."

Mark shrugged. "It was weird. Seeing my aunt and my cousin upset. I couldn't figure it out. I had thought they'd be secretly relieved that he was gone. And then my aunt could barely look at me, and when she did she'd start crying. . . I decided it would be better if I stayed out of the way. I told them I was gonna go have a cigarette, but I think I was just gonna take off. You know, my normal cut and run." Mark remembered how his cousin had looked at him suspiciously when he'd said he was going outside to have a smoke. There had been several other mourners smoking, and ash trays had been scattered around the funeral home. Mark had been pretty sure Annie had had his number.

"Well, I was just about to leave the funeral home when Marty came walking in. She'd seen the obituary in the paper, and she came to the visitation because she was hoping I'd be there.

"It had been at least eight years since I'd seen her. We'd kinda kept in touch. . . When I got to Florida I mailed her a postcard from Daytona Beach. She sent me this goofy gift basket thing when I won my first race. I sent her flowers when she graduated from college. That kind of thing. But we hadn't seen each other since the night I 'borrowed' my uncle's car. We were both at fault for that. . . I had been back in the area a few years before, racing at Lancaster, but I'd been with Kiki then. So I couldn't really call Marty, you know?" He shrugged. "Anyway, we had a lot to catch up on. After the visitation was over we went back to my motel room to talk, and, well. . . " McCormick spread his hands in a "you know" gesture. "I didn't make it to the funeral the next day," he said next, with a sly grin. "I don't think they missed me."

Milt shook his head with a disgusted look. "And here I just said you were decent."

McCormick returned Hardcastle's look with a contentious glare. "It's not like I drove all the way up from Florida looking to spend the night with Marty. Hell, I didn't even know she'd be there. It just happened. And she wasn't exactly resistant, Judge."

"I don't need the specifics, McCormick!"

Mark answered that with a brief, self-satisfied smile. "I almost asked her to come with me again. But I wasn't fifteen anymore. I knew she wouldn't leave. She'd moved to New York, and was student-teaching at a school there. She was where she wanted to be, doing what she wanted to do. I was still trying to find my footing with racing. I was good, and I knew I could be really good, but I got distracted. I was too interested in pretty women, and having fun. Or in the quick buck I could make by repossessing a car here or there. It wouldn't have worked, her and me. So we had a nice night. A _real_ nice night. And then she went back to New York, and I went back to Florida."

"And you didn't have any idea she was pregnant?" Hardcastle tried to recall the bits and pieces of the conversation he'd heard between Mark and Martina, when McCormick's voice had been loud enough to carry from the den into the kitchen.

"I had my suspicions when she called me a month or so later. I wasn't home, but the message she left said it was important, that she needed to talk to me. I wasn't dumb, Judge, I knew what the timing of the phone call could mean. But I actually wasn't sorry about it. Considering the type of girls who hung around the race track, the women I could have gotten pregnant. . . Not that I slept around that much," Mark was quick to defend.

"Of course not," Hardcastle responded dryly. It took immense strength to not bring Kiki back into the conversation.

"If Marty was calling to tell me that she was pregnant, I would've taken responsibility, and I would have been happy to do it. I called her back as soon as I got the message from my roommate. And her mother answered. She wouldn't let me speak to Marty, claimed that she was too upset to talk to me. And then Sandra started to weave this whole story about how seeing me had gotten Marty all worked up, and that the only reason Marty had called was to tell me that us getting together had been a mistake. That there wasn't any room left in her life for me, that she had outgrown me, and that I needed to forget her, forget I ever knew her. Our lives were too different. It was like Sandra could read my mind, she said everything I'd said to myself, every doubt I'd ever had about me and Marty. It didn't even occur to me that Sandra was lying.

"It really screwed with my head. Going from thinking Marty was calling to tell me she was pregnant, and already making plans to move back home and do whatever she needed, to hearing that she was done with me. I didn't realize how much I had actually fallen for her, that maybe I'd never gotten over her. I took it pretty hard. I started acting out, getting a real attitude. I bent up a car during practice laps, and Flip pulled me out of that weekend's race, said I couldn't go back out there until he knew I was thinking straight. I felt terrible, I knew the money I had just cost him. So I took a repo job, one that was a little more risky, not quite legit, but paid a whole lot more. But I still wasn't quite on my game, and even though I shook them off for a day or two, the cops eventually caught up with me. And I know you know _that_ story, Hardcase," Mark threw out, remembering how they had discussed that very occurrence that day in the judge's chambers, when Hardcastle had first broached the idea of McCormick being his "fast gun."

"Then I find out from Marty, just today, that she'd tried calling me again, after I'd been arrested. She said she hadn't known that I had called, or what her mother had done. But when she found out I was in jail, I guess the prospect of having me as the father of her kid didn't look so great. And I'm sure her mother was only too willing to convince Marty that I didn't ever need to know she was pregnant. So here we are." McCormick sat back in his chair, feeling strangely empty now that the story seemed to have come full circle.

Both men were silent for a few moments. Hardcastle spoke first, and his words were slightly flustered.

"Do you think – I'm just wondering – if your kid wasn't sick, and if Martina didn't think maybe you were sick, do you –"

"Do I think she ever would have told me I have a kid?" Mark finished. Milt gave a cautious nod. Mark sighed, rubbing his suddenly weary eyes. "I don't know, Judge. I hope she would have. Maybe when Olivia was older, and could have made her own decisions about trying to find me. But I guess it doesn't matter, now." McCormick rose abruptly. "It's late. I'm going over to the gatehouse, to try and get some sleep in a bed."

Hardcastle stood as well, stretching. "Yeah, that's a good idea, kid." He picked up the remote and clicked off the television. When he turned back toward McCormick, the younger man was looking at him with an unusual trepidation. It was an expression Milt hadn't seen from his friend in a long time.

"Thanks for listening, Judge."

Hardcastle waved off the gratitude. "I just wish you would have told me some of this stuff sooner. It doesn't help to keep it all bottled up inside you, so that when it comes out it drives you out of your gourd."

Mark snorted at the expression. "There's a reason I don't like to talk about that stuff – my mother, my uncle. . . I didn't think I'd ever have to tell you."

"Well, I'm glad you did."

McCormick dropped his gaze to the floor, overwhelmed. He'd gotten through both the stories of his uncle's abuse and his mother's death without feeling close to tears, and now these five words from "Hardcase" Hardcastle threatened to do him in. He cleared his throat, and without looking up, turned to leave the den. He'd barely made it up the steps before he returned, coming to grab the envelope of pictures from the table between the chairs. Then, holding the images of his daughter close to his chest, he made his way out to the gatehouse.

* * *

"Wouldya sit down? You're making me nervous, pacing like that!"

McCormick glanced at Hardcastle, sitting in one of the chairs opposite Charlie Friedman's desk. He had a fishing magazine open on his lap, and an irritated expression on his face.

"Oh, I'm so sorry, Judge. I'll try to not let my impending doom distract you from your reading. You do realize you have that magazine upside-down, don't you?"

Hardcastle looked down quickly at the periodical, which was indeed facing the wrong direction. He turned the magazine around, and then shot Mark a glare. "Cute, McCormick."

"Just proving that you don't need me to make you nervous. You're obviously not reading that." Mark came to drop into the chair next to his friend. "Why should we pretend everything's all right?" he asked in a defeated voice.

"I told you on the way here – you have to stop thinking like that. Last time I checked, neither of us are doctors, and Charlie just might have better news than you think."

McCormick barely acknowledged Hardcastle's encouraging words, and Milt was about to launch into another lecture about the pitfalls of fatalistic thinking, when the door opened.

A lean, grey-haired man in his sixties, Charlie Friedman had one of those faces that even made strangers wonder where they had seen him before. Hardcastle and McCormick both turned as the doctor walked into the room, carrying a folder and a blood pressure cuff. Mark stood awkwardly.

Charlie waved at Mark to stop him. "Please, sit, Mark." He next addressed the older man. "Milt, good to see you." Charlie came around to sit at his desk, placing the items down in front of him. He smiled genially at the two men.

Milt leaned forward, not returning the smile. "So what do you got for us, Charlie?"

Mark gave the judge a sideways look at the use of the word "us." He turned his full attention back to the doctor, who was now looking quietly at the medical chart in the folder. Then Charlie raised his head with an amused expression.

"I see you met our resident 'cat,'" he said to Mark.

McCormick stared back blankly, and Charlie chuckled. "Our newest nurse. Tabitha Katt. But she goes by Tabby. Somewhat of an inside joke around here."

Mark grinned, feeling an unusual relief in the humorous situation. "I didn't notice her name," he confessed.

"Well, her name tag just says 'T. Katt,' so you wouldn't have picked up on it. But there's more – you won't believe her middle name."

Mark thought if he found out her middle name was Danielle he'd probably start laughing hysterically. Somewhere in the back of his mind he knew that didn't make sense, but after the night he'd had, staring up at the ceiling above his bed while a chilling sense of dread forestalled any sleep, he wasn't thinking very clearly.

When McCormick didn't respond to Charlie's hint, Milt picked it up. "Middle name? Don't leave us hanging, Charlie."

"Kitty." At Mark and Milt's disbelieving looks, Charlie began to laugh. "I'm serious. It was her grandmother's name."

Still laughing lightly, Charlie picked up the blood pressure cuff, then rose from his desk to come around to the front, stopping in front of Mark. "I just want to get a quick blood pressure, Mark," he said. "Just stay where you are, this is fine."

This time McCormick had no request over which arm was used, as they were now both bruised, courtesy of Hardcastle's forceful grip during his fit in the garage. He winced at the pressure of the cuff, looking away in the hope that the other two men didn't see the pain in his face. As the clutch of the cuff began to recede, Mark looked back, watching the doctor carefully as he listened to his stethoscope with an emotionless expression. Finally Charlie unwrapped the cuff, then placed the stethoscope back into the pocket of his lab coat.

"Not as bad as yesterday," Charlie said. He went to sit back in his chair, writing down the numbers. But when he looked up from the chart, his face was serious. "It's still higher than I like, though, Mark."

"What was it?" Milt asked, looking between Mark and the doctor. "And what was it yesterday?"

Charlie hesitated, then shook his head lightly. "Obviously, Mark, I'm assuming if Milt is here, I have permission to discuss your medical results in front of him." Hardcastle scoffed, and Mark smiled briefly.

"Yeah, Charlie. No need to kick him out. You can answer."

Charlie nodded. "Mark's blood pressure results yesterday were unusual enough that I wanted to check again. Tabby's written in here that she got readings of 154 over 92, and 150 over 90. Not terribly high, but your blood pressure has always been low before, Mark. I just now got a reading of 146 over 90. Better, but still higher than usual. I'm going to suggest placing you on medication. Untreated high blood pressure can be damaging to your kidneys, and there's already some indication of possible damage."

"Indication?" Mark echoed, his voice hollow. "What –" he swallowed, then started again. "What does that mean?"

The doctor began to read from the chart. "For one thing, you have hematuria – blood in your urine. It's microscopic, but it's not the only indicator. There's a GFR result, which is determined by the amount of creatinine in your blood. Your GFR level is 83. That is crossing the line into Stage 2 kidney disease. You also have a slightly elevated white blood cell count, which could indicate infection, although that could also be attributed to stress." Charlie closed the folder quietly. "These results are not terribly serious individually, but when occurring together, and knowing what caused you to contact me, I believe you should see a nephrologist."

McCormick closed his eyes momentarily, taking a deep breath. He didn't speak. Hardcastle looked anxiously at Charlie.

"Are you saying he has this cyst thing, or something else?

Charlie regarded both men soberly. "This isn't my field, I'm not a specialist. It's unlikely to be diabetes – Mark's glucose levels were in normal parameters, according to the RPG test. But I did do some more research into polycystic kidney disease after speaking with you yesterday, Mark." McCormick moved slightly in his chair, grimacing. Charlie went on. "And after reviewing your results," he tapped the folder, "I consulted with Dr. Wesson, and we have you scheduled for an ultrasound of your kidneys, tomorrow morning."

"Tomorrow?" Mark's voice rose in pitch and volume. At the same time, Milt asked, "Wesson?"

"Emery Wesson. He's a nephrologist who works with our hospital. He's a good man, and a very good doctor. I was able to speak with him this morning about Mark's results and the possible family history, and he thought it would be a good idea to get him in as soon as possible. And I'm inclined to agree." Charlie was writing down a note on a prescription pad. "This is the time and location where you need to go for the ultrasound. If you come in at the main entrance, they'll direct you to Imaging. I may not be there right at the start of your appointment, but I should be there to discuss your results with you and Emery."

The doctor held the note out toward Mark. When McCormick didn't move, Hardcastle reached over to take the paper, folding it to place it in his shirt pocket. The three men were silent for a moment, then Charlie gave a soft sigh. "Mark," he prodded gently.

The young man looked at him with glazed eyes in a white face. "You think I have it," he said dully.

"I think it's a possibility. With your test results, and the symptoms you described to me yesterday, there's no mistaking something's not right. But," he stressed, "even if this is PKD, it is something that can be managed. You will need to make some changes in your lifestyle, most likely your diet and definitely no more risking your health chasing criminals. But I believe the two of you were toning that down anyway, am I correct?" The doctor looked to Milt for confirmation, and the judge gave an affirming nod.

"But it's progressive. There's no cure. Even if I do these things, I'll get worse." Mark stared at the doctor.

Charlie sighed again. "If this is PKD, your symptoms are still mild. Which means you'll have found out early in the game. That gives you a much better chance of slowing the course of the disease to the point that it doesn't adversely affect your life. But these are all things we'll discuss tomorrow, after your appointment. What I can do right now is write you a prescription – I already talked to Dr. Wesson about the best choice of medications to start you on." Friedman was writing on his prescription pad again. "I'm prescribing a diuretic, and a beta blocker called Metoprolol. These are both low doses to start. We'll need to monitor your blood pressure, as well as do regular lab work, to see if anything needs to be adjusted."

McCormick took the papers without looking at them, his hand shaking slightly. "I don't understand this," he said fervently. "I don't even feel sick. Just achy, and tired. What, Marty tells me I'm sick, and all of a sudden I'm sick? Just because she said so? I was _fine_." He crumpled the papers in his hand unconsciously.

"I don't think you were fine, kiddo," Milt said softly. "I think you were just ignoring the problem. I saw it, you know. I could see you weren't yourself the last couple of weeks. I just wrote it off, figured it was stress from school, or you being out of shape and not used to doing the work around the estate." Milt shook his head sorrowfully. "Or maybe I just didn't want to believe something was wrong. I'm sorry I didn't ask you about it. I guess I dropped the ball there."

McCormick glared at his friend, and some of the color returned to his face. "I thought you said neither of us were doctors, Hardcase. How were you supposed to figure out I was sick if I didn't know?"

Hardcastle glared back, not wanting to be reassured. "Because I'm supposed to make sure you're all right! That's my responsibility!"

Mark laughed harshly. "That hasn't been true for a couple of years, Judge. Or did you forget you're not my P.O. anymore?"

"That's not what I mean."

McCormick had that distressing feeling again, of tears threatening to surface. He looked down at the prescriptions still in his hand, and placing them on his knee, he tried to smooth out the wrinkled papers. The awkward silence stretched, with none of the men sure what to say next.

"Mark, do you have any questions you want to ask me?" Charlie finally said.

Mark shook his head slowly. "No. I need to think. Maybe after I see this Wesson guy tomorrow I'll be more with it, able to ask some questions. I mean, anything I ask now you're just going to defer to him anyway, right?" he challenged the doctor. "You said it yourself, you're not a specialist."

"McCormick – "

Friedman raised a hand, silencing his friend's angry defense. "He's right, Milt. I can offer my educated guesses, and I'd probably be pretty close. But it's better if I wait until we meet with Emery tomorrow. Once you get that ultrasound, Mark, we'll be able see whether there are any cysts on your kidneys, or if there is another problem. Then he and I can come to a more definite diagnosis."

"Okay." Mark stood, and looked expectantly at Hardcastle. "Can we go home now? I didn't get enough sleep last night, and I'm worn out." His weary face and the slumped posture of his body confirmed his words.

Milt and Charlie both rose, and the judge leaned forward to shake the doctor's hand. "Thanks a lot, Charlie," he said. "We appreciate it."

"I just wish I had better news." Charlie looked somberly at McCormick. The young man nodded shortly, turning to the door. Then a sudden thought occurred to him. "Charlie, is it okay for me to drive?" he asked, hope lighting his face.

If anything, Charlie's expression became more somber. "I don't think that would be a good idea until you know how your body reacts to the medications. You could become dizzy, or fatigued and less alert. I recommend you don't drive, at least initially. Hopefully any side effects you experience will be minor, or will pass with time."

The hope disappeared, replaced with a stony resignation. "Well, come on, Kemosabe," Mark said to Hardcastle. "It looks like Tonto will be riding shotgun for a while." He left the office, flinging the door open harder than necessary as he walked through.


	14. Chapter 14

_**Inheritance Tax**_ **by InitialLuv**

 **Chapter Fourteen**

It was a quiet ride to the pharmacy, one that the two men frequented because of its location in a supermarket that boasted an appreciative variety of junk food. While Mark waited for his prescriptions to be filled, Milt wandered the aisles. He studied the selections of chips, donuts, Pop Tarts and soft drinks with a critical eye. Hardcastle knew his diet was not ideal for a man in his late sixties, what with the Pinky Fizz and pecan pie and cookies, which was why he tried to balance it with fresh fish, lean meat (preferably grilled), fruit, and green vegetables. And when it was the judge's turn to cook, McCormick was obliged to eat whatever healthy food was put in front of him, and typically did so without complaint, unless the meat of choice was liver.

But Mark's personal eating habits were definitely one of the "kid" traits that Hardcastle saw in him. Pizza was a McCormick staple – the greasier, the better. He considered himself a fast food aficionado. He made elaborate sandwiches that rivaled Dagwood Bumstead's. His late night bowls of ice cream were large enough that when Milt checked the freezer, he often found containers with barely a scoop of the frozen treat left in them. And when the two men watched late-night movies with a bowl of shared popcorn between them, Mark could consume three-quarters of the snack before the first commercial break.

If McCormick had PKD, that was going to have to change. Charlie had mentioned it, and Milt seemed to remember Martina also making some comment about a healthy diet being important in controlling the disease. Hardcastle shoved his hands in his pockets, scowling. He wasn't sure why he was bothered by the idea of McCormick eating like an adult. The fact was, Mark _wasn't_ a kid, and in some aspects it almost seemed he had matured ten years in the roughly five he'd been at Gulls' Way. Still, there were juvenile behaviors that persisted – Mark's wise cracks and goofy jokes being chief among them. And McCormick's hot-headedness, his inability to keep angry emotions in check, reminded Hardcastle of a teenager, rather than of a man closing in on his mid-thirties.

 _What does that say about me? I'm just as bad as him, in that sense._

Hardcastle huffed out a sigh. He wasn't one for psychological mumbo-jumbo, but he thought he might have an inkling about what was troubling him. Although he'd never admit it to the man himself, he was fond of McCormick's youthful demeanor. Hardcastle had known his friend hadn't had an ideal childhood, even before hearing last night's story of McCormick's early teenage years. Mark had been forced to grow up fast in tough circumstances, and hadn't been allowed much of a chance to just _be_ a kid. Milt had understood that, and in his own way he had cultivated Mark's second childhood. Oh, sure, he complained about the young man being immature and irresponsible and forgetful and naïve, but the gruffness often had amused undertones. For he actually liked McCormick's oddball humor, his crazy taste in music, his voracious appetite, and his grandstanding on the basketball court. The kid was fun and active and energetic, and just being in his presence made Milt feel ten years younger.

McCormick without junk food was not natural. And if that was taken away, in addition to any physical activity that could be deemed dangerous, what part of the "kid" would remain?

"Are we out of anything? Might as well pick it up while we're here."

Hardcastle started slightly at McCormick's voice. "You got what you needed?"

"All set." Mark was shoving the receipt in his jeans pocket. He held up a small paper bag. "The pharmacist wants me to take a dose of each as soon as we get home. I'm supposed to take the one pill at a meal, so I guess lunchtime." He pulled the slips of drug facts out of the bag and read them with a grumpy expression. "The possible side effects of these things sound like a lot of fun. Drowsiness and insomnia. Diarrhea and constipation. Does that make any sense to you?"

Milt shook his head with a sympathetic grin. "Well, you've been on antibiotics before, and pain pills. I would guess it's not much different. Just gotta follow the directions and do what Charlie says, and this Dr. Wesson. Probably good you've got that appointment tomorrow – you can talk to them if you're worried about the side effects."

McCormick didn't answer, but his expression cleared somewhat. "You gonna get something?" he asked again instead. "I know we could use some more ice cream."

"Nah," Milt said nonchalantly. "They don't have the kind I like here. Let's head home and get some lunch. I've got a taste for that roast beef you picked up at the deli, on that sourdough bread. Maybe with some lettuce, tomatoes, and avocados. . ."

"Sounds like a salad, Judge." Mark followed the judge out of the store, his face glum.

Hardcastle hung back a step until McCormick caught up, and then clapped the younger man on the shoulder. "Grown-ups eat salad, kiddo."

As they made their way to the Corvette, the judge kept his hand solidly on Mark's shoulder, under the guise of guiding him to the passenger side of the car. Both men knew there was more to it than that, but neither of them needed to say it. Milt's warm, comforting grasp spoke as much as words could have, if not more.

* * *

Once back at Gulls' Way, Hardcastle assumed the role of unwavering medication supervisor, not starting lunch preparations until he was satisfied McCormick had taken both pills. Ten minutes later they were sitting down to roast beef sandwiches on sourdough bread, although Mark had abstained from the avocados.

McCormick quickly excused himself after lunch, reiterating his earlier claim that he needed to catch up on his sleep after the broken rest of the night before. Hardcastle muttered an acknowledgement, watching as Mark left the kitchen, to eventually exit the main house in a quiet, subdued, very un-McCormick-like fashion. Milt tried to trust his friend's excuse, but doubt soon reared its head, and maybe a half hour after cleaning up the lunch dishes, the judge crossed the lawn to the gatehouse. He knocked perfunctorily before letting himself in, and was disappointed, but not surprised, to find the residence looking empty. After calling McCormick's name several times, in increasingly irritated tones, Hardcastle determined Mark was nowhere inside.

A quick search of McCormick's standard preferred locations on the estate – the pool patio, the lawn overlooking his favorite ocean view, and the garage – still showed no sign of the man. That left one last choice. After seeing the distant figure sitting on the sand watching the waves, Milt inwardly chided himself for not checking the beach first.

Hardcastle paused, wondering if tromping down to the beach to accompany Mark would be seen as unwelcome hovering. The events of the last two days had taken a lot of control away from McCormick, and maybe this "rebellion" of escaping to the beach, when he should have been resting, was something the younger man needed. Milt gave a low sigh that resembled a growl. He was not comfortable pussy-footing around, and soon began to mentally argue the merits of approaching McCormick versus leaving him be.

 _Should he be down there by himself after just starting that medication?_

 _He's a grown man, and it's not like he's some invalid. He'll be fine._

 _Maybe I should keep an eye on him, make sure he's okay._

 _What are you going to do, pull up a lawn chair so you can sit and stare at him until he decides he's good and ready to come back up here?_

"Well, _are_ you?" Hardcastle mumbled aloud.

* * *

McCormick hadn't consciously decided to go down to the beach. He'd left the main house with only the thoughts of the gatehouse's comfortable bed and the thankful oblivion that sleep would provide. But his direction had changed so that he was descending the steps to the beach automatically, and he was out near the shore almost without remembering how he had gotten there.

It was a beautiful, cloudless June afternoon, and several locals were on the beach. There were two young boys playing Frisbee, a mother and toddler chasing the silver-frothed waves, and a small group of teenagers with surf boards. None of them were close enough to bother McCormick, as most of the beach's regular visitors respected the section directly below Gulls' Way, well aware the judge's personal claim of the area Nancy Hardcastle had christened Seagull Beach. And although McCormick was usually unperturbed when people did come to the portion of the beach that he frequented – he had actually campaigned fairly vocally for the judge to allow Seagull Beach to become public – he was glad this afternoon that he was basically alone.

Mark took off his shoes and socks and rolled up the cuffs of his jeans. He walked forward and let the waves lap over his bare feet. He tipped his head back to let the sun warm his face, narrowing his eyes against the brightness. The sun soon became more irritating than enjoyable, as any warmth it was providing was superseded by a well-known pain behind his eyes. The spontaneous trip to the beach had meant he hadn't thought to scrounge up a pair of sunglasses. The ones from the glove compartment in the Corvette had been broken and tossed, but he knew there were similar pairs in both the Coyote and the pickup, as well as scattered in the gatehouse. McCormick had found it was easier to wear the dark glasses than to deal with the sun-headaches that came with California living. Even on smog-alert days he still found himself squinting in the sun's hazy glare.

Moving away from the water, Mark lowered himself to sit in the warm sand. He pulled his knees up and rested his arms across them, then dropped his chin onto his crossed arms. He stared out at the ocean pensively. It wasn't long before the sound of the waves and the heat of the sun lulled him into a half-doze.

"Hey, Mister!"

McCormick turned groggily at the voice, coming from a short distance away. It was one of the young boys that had been playing Frisbee. When the boy gestured, Mark saw the Frisbee had landed on the beach a few feet from him.

"A little help?"

Mark reached over to retrieve the toy. He only needed to rise part-way to throw it back to its owner, such as was the height difference between them. The boy caught the Frisbee neatly, shouted a thanks, and then ran off back to where his friend was waiting. McCormick stood up completely, and suddenly the horizon tilted. He pitched forward, and by some grace was able to not fall flat on his face. Bending deeply at the waist, he stood with his hands resting on his knees and his head hanging down until the worst of the dizzy spell had passed. When he felt he was no longer in danger of throwing up, he raised his head slowly to look around and see if anyone had noticed his strange behavior. Once again he was grateful that he was relatively alone, as no one had been near enough to witness the attack.

McCormick sighed, dropping back down in the sand gracelessly. _So this is what it's going to be. Either I feel like crap without the pills, or I feel like crap with them. Great._ And the dizziness was just one reaction. Both drugs had come with a laundry list of possible side effects, in sections labeled "common," "less common," and "rare."

Mark looked at his watch, wondering where Martina was now, and when he might hear from her. With her plane leaving bright and early, he guessed she could have already made it home. He calculated that she'd had at least six hours of traveling time. Of course, he needed to consider the added time incurred by layovers or connecting flights . . . And even if she was home, he was sure her first thought on return wouldn't be to call him. No, he could sit out here a while longer. At least until Hardcase came down to fetch him. McCormick could almost hear the gruff voice: _"You get lost on the way to your bedroom, kid?"_

 _Kid._ When Mark had first moved in at the estate – hell, when he'd first met Hardcastle – the age-oriented sobriquets had quickly gotten under his skin. "Pal" and "Sport" hadn't made him bristle as much as "Junior" or even "Sonny," which was a term Sarah Wicks had been fond of. The irony of that nickname hadn't been realized until he'd tracked down his father on his thirtieth birthday.

McCormick's life had revolved around negative labels, the obvious first one being _bastard_. Before he was eighteen he had added _orphan, juvenile delinquent_ , and _high school dropout_ to the list. For a brief time in Florida he'd seemed to shake the derogatory nicknames, possibly by adding a few positive ones of his own, such as _G.E.D. recipient_ , _victor_ , and of course, _Skid_. But the respite had been brief, and it wasn't long before _criminal, inmate, convict,_ and _felon_ became how he was next known.

Then it was _ex-convict_ – a step up – for a while. Until Hardcastle swooped into his life like only the Batman could, and decidedly put his new Robin in his place, reminding him daily of his youth and inexperience by constantly calling him a kid.

When had the nickname changed from one of seniority, to one of affection? When had they both come to the conclusion that the business partnership had now become a friendship? McCormick thought it may have been around the time when he'd started to prefer "Kid" and "Kiddo" to "Mark." At least where Hardcastle was concerned. The judge called him by his Christian name so rarely that when he did, McCormick was usually rattled, wondering what he had done wrong. It was that same disconcerting feeling he'd gotten as a kid, when a particularly egregious misbehavior would cause his mother to sternly call out, "Mark _Daniel_!" – always accenting the middle name.

McCormick wondered if he was at a point now where he could leave the insulting monikers by the wayside. _Crime fighter_ and _law student_ held a lot of weight. With Sonny's reappearance, however inconsistent, he could now again call himself a son. And after Martina's visit yesterday, the most recent name to add to his repertoire was maybe the most unexpected: _Father_.

Is this what he should be doing, as a father? Hiding down on the beach, feeling sorry for himself, lost in rambling nonsensical thoughts? He should be back up at the gatehouse, resting like he'd told Hardcastle he would be. Taking care of himself. Taking the pills, following Charlie's instructions, going to the ultrasound tomorrow with an open mind. If they told him he had PKD, it wouldn't be the end of the world. He'd need to change some things, keep himself healthy, sure . . . but Olivia had to make those changes, too. They could do it together.

How? They lived on opposite coasts. Was he just supposed to pick up and move to New York? He had a life here, law school.

Hardcastle.

"You're gonna get sunburned."

McCormick looked down at the sand and shook his head with a wry grin. "Took you long enough."

"What's that supposed to mean?" There was a defensive edge to the words.

"Nothing, Judge." Mark began to stand, then remembered the earlier dizzy spell. He quickly adapted his pose to kneeling.

"You okay?" Hardcastle started forward, placing a steady hand on Mark's arm.

"Yeah. . . I just gotta get my shoes." McCormick shuffled forward, grabbing his sneakers. When he straightened up he did it very slowly and methodically, and was gratified to experience only the briefest shift in his equilibrium. Hardcastle watched him with a jaded expression, then finally seeming satisfied, turned to lead the way back up the path. "I just thought you'd want to be back up at the house, in case Martina calls," he said.

"Okay." Mark plodded up behind the judge, breathing too heavily to say more.

"Although if you go get some sleep, like you're supposed to, I can just take a message and then you can call her back."

"Sure."

Hardcastle paused, looking back at his friend. "What's wrong with you? I can usually never get a word in edgewise with the way you blather on."

McCormick tried for an irritated eye roll, and immediately regretted it as sharp pain shot through his head. "I'm tired, Hardcase. And hot. Just . . . move, okay?"

Once the two men were back on the estate lawn, they made for their individual residences. Mark was on his way to the gatehouse when Hardcastle's call made him turn.

"Hey! I'll wake you for supper."

McCormick nodded, waving a hand. "Supper," he repeated. "See you then, Judge."

"All right. Get some rest, Mark."

McCormick froze, his insides suddenly seized with a guilt-borne panic. _Why did he call me Mark? What did I do?_

Or maybe the question was: _What does he think I'm_ ** _going_** _to do?_

Mark wasn't able to make his feet move again until he heard the door of the main house slam shut. After he was in the gatehouse, it was a slow, painful climb up the stairs – the headache was now being accompanied by the annoyingly familiar ache in his lower back.

Once he'd reached the loft, Mark went to his desk. Digging into the pocket of his jeans, he pulled out two items. The pharmacy receipt was tossed aside, while the recently-purchased bottle of aspirin was quickly opened. He shook three pills into his hand, but too tired to take another trip down the stairs for some water, he dry-swallowed the medicine with a shudder.

McCormick knew the best way to make sure the pills actually helped would be to take the nap both he and the judge had referenced. Instead of going directly to his bed, though, he sat at the desk. Pulling a Yellow Pages directory out of a drawer, Mark opened it to the 'A' section and grabbed the phone.

* * *

Milt was putting the turkey roast in the oven and wondering if a phone call or a direct visit would be the best way to wake McCormick, when the man in question came in through the back door. There were damp spots on Mark's shirt and his hair was still wet – he'd obviously just had a shower.

"You get some sleep? I was just gonna wake you up."

"Yeah, but I still feel tired. Must be the pills." McCormick leaned against the counter wearily. "The shower helped wake me up some."

"Well, I hope you're awake enough to peel some potatoes without cutting a thumb off."

ooOoo

McCormick had one potato fully peeled, and was about to start on the second, when the judge reached to take the peeler out of his hand. "Give me that."

The younger man relinquished the tool with a bemused expression. "I still have all my fingers, Judge."

"Yeah, but if I wait for you to finish these in between yawning, we'll be eating raw potatoes with the turkey. Go. Sit." Hardcastle pointed at the table with the potato peeler.

Mark didn't need much persuasion. In between making the phone calls and then partaking in another marathon of lying on his back and studying the ceiling, he'd gotten very little sleep. He pulled out a chair and sat with a quiet grunt of pain, then leaned forward to cross his arms on the table, putting his head down. Turning his head slightly, Mark watched as Hardcastle finished peeling the potatoes and then began to slice them into a pot.

Then next thing McCormick was aware of was the plate of hot food that Hardcastle placed in front of him.

ooOoo

McCormick had a forkful of mashed potatoes in his mouth when the judge commented, as if just remembering, "Oh, Martina called."

Mark swallowed wrong and started coughing. He grabbed for his glass of milk, drinking deeply to settle his throat.

"You okay?"

McCormick flapped a hand at Hardcastle, still unable to talk. He coughed a few more times, then looked up with watering eyes. "I'm fine!" he snapped. When Milt drew back, obviously stung by the tone, Mark relented. "I'm sorry, Judge, you just kind of surprised me. What did she say?"

"Just wanted to let you know she finally got home. Had a delay in Chicago – some kind of problem with the jetway, she said." Hardcastle looked at the clock. "She called around three o'clock. I guess she got home sometime after five her time."

Mark nodded, pushing the remains of his food around on his plate. "And now it's after nine in New York. Maybe I should just call her back tomorrow. I'm sure she's beat from all the traveling."

"Yeah, she kinda said the same thing." Milt rose, taking his plate to the sink. "And you look beat, too. Might be best to just go back to bed. You've got that appointment in the morning."

Mark raised his eyebrows slightly. "My turn to do the dishes. You cooked. Again."

"Ah," Hardcastle waved off the offer. "I'll just put most of them in the dishwasher. Don't worry about it."

McCormick rose to scrape his plate, adding it to the pile of dishes on the counter. Without looking at the judge, he asked, "Uh, you know this morning with Charlie, and the appointment tomorrow. . . "

"Yeah?" Milt rested against the sink, his arms crossed.

Mark hesitated, trying to find the right words that wouldn't prompt another hurt look from his friend.

"Did you tell Marty anything? I mean, she asked, right?"

Hardcastle was quiet so long that Mark looked up anxiously, to see the older man watching him with a measured gaze.

"Yeah, she asked. And no, I didn't tell her anything. Because you will. Tomorrow, when you call her back."

McCormick's response was a short, silent nod.

* * *

Hardcastle was up and over to the gatehouse by seven the next morning, to make sure that McCormick was awake and in the process of getting ready to leave for the ultrasound appointment. The empty gatehouse prompted a stomach-churning sense of déjà vu, as Milt didn't think he'd find the kid on the beach this time. He searched the estate half-heartedly, occasionally calling for McCormick but not expecting an answer. The only thing that partially eased his distress was that all three vehicles were still accounted for; wherever Mark might be, he at least wasn't driving.

Returning to the gatehouse, Milt searched for any signs of where McCormick could have gone. He checked drawers and closets, the bathroom and the kitchenette. As the small house was in a comfortable state of clutter, there didn't seem to be anything obviously out of place, or anything obviously missing. The kid was good, he had to give him that much. The judge stood on the lower level with his hands on his waist. He was disgusted with himself, for not recognizing that McCormick had been planning to run.

But where was he running to?

Hardcastle sighed dejectedly, moving to the phone on the table near the sofa. There were two people that he needed to call – it was just a question of who he phoned first. Picking up the receiver, he punched in the numbers from memory, and waited impatiently for the connection.

"Yeah, this is Milt Hardcastle. I need to talk to Charlie Friedman."


	15. Chapter 15

_**Inheritance Tax**_ **by Initial Luv**

 **Chapter Fifteen**

McCormick closed his eyes, and leaned his head back. He took a long breath, gritting his teeth against the nausea. He clenched and unclenched his fists repeatedly.

"First time flying?"

Mark turned his head toward the person sitting on his left: a pleasant-looking woman who appeared to be in her mid-forties. She was holding a book open on her tray table, but had turned from her reading to study him with a concerned expression.

"What?" he asked, in between deep breaths.

"You look like you're pretty uncomfortable. I thought maybe this was your first time flying."

"No, it's not." Mark looked around the plane briefly. "But I'd really rather be driving."

"Oh, not me," the woman disagreed. "That Los Angeles traffic is a nightmare – am I right? I was just here for a week, but I had enough of that to last me a lifetime." She laughed sheepishly. "I'm from a small town. I am not used to big-city traffic."

Mark nodded absently. Another wave of pain crossed his back and he gasped involuntarily, again closing his eyes.

He could feel the woman shift in her seat. "Do you want me to get the stewardess?" she asked nervously.

McCormick opened his eyes and did his best to keep his voice steady. "No, it's okay. I just need to wait for the pills to kick in."

" _Oh_ ," the woman said knowingly. "Airsick? No wonder you'd rather drive." She smiled at him in sympathy.

McCormick nodded, smiling back weakly. It was easier to explain his obvious discomfort as airsickness, instead of what it really was. _And what_ _ **is**_ _it, really?_ he wondered to himself. His back had been host to varying degrees of pain once he took his seat back in the coach section, but he could be plenty uncomfortable on a plane even when perfectly healthy. There was an oppressive sense of powerlessness on a plane, and the prison-like confinement and close quarters made Mark borderline claustrophobic. On one of the first times he'd flown with the judge, Hardcastle had remarked on McCormick's "selective" claustrophobia, claiming that if the young man truly suffered from the neurosis he wouldn't have been able to race. The cavalier comment had angered Mark, and he'd defended himself by touting the differences between driving a race car and being able to make your own decisions, versus being a passenger in a plane and having no control over your fate. A safe landing sometimes seemed like a crap shoot, and McCormick's unease while flying had only worsened after he and Hardcastle had crashed up in Oregon. So, yeah, he'd much rather drive. Sure, Charlie had reservations on driving when starting a new medication, but as long as Mark didn't feel the loopy disconnection that pain pills did to him, he thought he could handle driving. _Well, maybe not from coast-to-coast._ He had done it before, when he'd followed the judge out to D.C. several years back, but he hadn't been experiencing random dizzy spells then.

And even though the dizziness had reduced quite a bit after that initial spell on the beach, there was also the fact that, if he'd taken off in the Coyote, the judge would have found him before he'd crossed the state line.

The woman was speaking to him again, and he realized he'd been grimacing while thinking of how he'd been forced to choose this detestable form of travel.

"Do you want to switch seats with me so you're on the aisle, in case you need to . . . leave?"

Mark was able to produce a faint grin. "Maybe. I'll think about it. Thanks, uh –"

"Cassie," she introduced herself. "And you're . . ?"

"Mark."

"Where are you headed, Mark? Detroit, or are you catching a connecting flight?"

"Yeah, connecting," he confirmed. "I'm going to New York. Some place called Tarrytown?" When McCormick had called the airlines the day before, he'd found that if he flew in to White Plains, New York, he'd be within driving distance of the small town listed on Marty's deposit slip. He was pretty sure he'd heard of the town before, but hadn't felt the need to determine why. After growing up in a neighboring state, Mark was used to having a familiarity with most things New York. That familiarity had only increased when he'd competed at Lancaster briefly during his racing career.

"Tarrytown?" Cassie repeated, amused. "Headless Horseman? Ichabod Crane? That Tarrytown?"

Mark looked out the window at the partially lit sky, thinking. "Sleepy Hollow," he muttered. He now knew exactly where he'd heard the name Tarrytown. He also recognized that it was likely he'd consciously ignored the familiar twinge. He'd read "The Legend of Sleepy Hollow" roughly six years ago, in prison. The story – along with "Rip Van Winkle" – had been in a Washington Irving collection that he'd grabbed off of the library cart.

Cassie was chuckling lightly, unaware of McCormick's bitter memories. "That's the best thing about small towns: the unusual histories or backgrounds they have. Take where I'm from," she continued. "Prairie du Sac, Wisconsin. Home of the Cow Chip Festival."

"The _what_?" Mark turned from the window to look dubiously at his neighbor.

"The Cow Chip Festival. Every year on Labor Day weekend. It's a big thing," she said in a serious tone. "Live music, beer, tons of food. There's a big arts and crafts fair and a parade on Saturday. And of course, the Cow Chip Throw."

Mark knew he had to ask, even as he felt that the woman might be pulling his leg.

"What is a cow chip?"

Cassie stared at him as if he had asked her to identify that new-fangled contraption called a "telephone."

"It's dried cow pats."

"Pats?"

"Dung," she tried next.

Mark knew now that she had to be kidding. The whole story had the same feel as the ones Hardcastle liked to tell of his childhood growing up in Arkansas. The judge's elaborate narratives often rendered McCormick speechless in disbelief.

"Your city has a festival, based on cow poop."

She frowned a little, seeming offended. "We're not the only ones. There's a town in Oklahoma that has a cow chip throw, too."

"You're kidding." When she simply shook her head, the next big question suddenly occurred to him. "Wait, you _throw_ the cow poop?"

"Well, it's _dried_ ," Cassie answered practically. "It's not much different than throwing a Frisbee, but there's all different techniques to throwing them. There's a corporate throw, and a kids' throw, and the individual throw. Everyone gets it on it."

"Parents let their kids throw cow poop?" Mark just couldn't seem to get off of this tangent.

"It's a rite of passage for a local," she confirmed.

"Well, I'm assuming you wear gloves to do it." McCormick settled back in his seat with a distasteful look on his face. Small towns. Give him the big city any day.

Cassie began laughing again, and Mark couldn't keep himself from looking her way. Her face held a broad smile.

"Gloves? That's against the rules. But you can lick your fingers to get a better grip."

ooOoo

Mark and Cassie conversed comfortably for a good portion of the flight. She shared that she'd been in California for her nephew's wedding, and then had stayed a few days more to sight-see. McCormick hesitantly allowed that his reason for flying to New York was also family-oriented. He didn't specify, and she didn't push, but he could sense her curiosity at his non-disclosure.

Mark cast about for a way to change the subject, and decided to get the woman talking about her home state again. He confessed that the entirety of what he knew about Wisconsin was limited to the Milwaukee Mile race track, and the Green Bay Packers. He was relieved when Cassie grabbed on to the comment of the Packers and ran with it. She informed Mark that, starting in the 1930s and lasting nearly twenty years, the NFL team had actually played several games a season in the infield of the Milwaukee Mile. Warming to the discussion, McCormick teased the woman about Green Bay's poor showing the last few seasons. Cassie took the ribbing well, and even acknowledged what the problem might be. "It doesn't always work for a former player to be the head coach," she admitted. "Forrest Gregg isn't exactly Mike Ditka." Even as she praised him, Cassie spoke the name of the Chicago Bears' head coach like it left a bad taste in her mouth. "But the Packers will be fine – our time will come," she said with conviction. "You just worry about your Rams-Raiders dilemma."

Mark grinned, remembering conversations he and the judge had shared on that very issue. "Nah, I'm more of a Jets fan," he replied.

The talk of football gradually led Cassie back to her nephew, as she stated that the young groom had majored in communications, and had plans to become a sports reporter. The woman pulled an engagement photo of the now-newlyweds out of her book, where she'd been using it as a bookmark. McCormick dutifully remarked on the attractiveness of the couple, and Cassie beamed, placing the photograph back in her copy of _Postcards from the Edge._

McCormick had thought his earlier brief reason for his journey had been sufficient. After all, he didn't know this woman and would probably never speak to her again once they parted ways in Detroit. But after seeing the pride Cassie felt when sharing her nephew's picture, Mark was hit with an inexplicable urge to also present a photograph, and he reached forward to retrieve his backpack. Self-consciously pushing the pill bottles to the base of the canvas bag, McCormick pulled out the envelope of photos, now creased and smudged with his frequent handling. He removed the school photo, handing it to Cassie for consideration.

The woman clucked her tongue gently. "Well, she's just a mirror image of you, isn't she? What's her name?"

"Olivia." His mouth turned upward as he spoke the name, marveling how just one word could elicit such overpowering emotion.

Cassie handed the picture back. "She's beautiful." She watched as he delicately handled the photo. "But then you already knew that."

The school portrait was wallet-sized, and on a whim, McCormick decided to liberate the photo from the rest in the envelope. Pulling out his wallet, he placed Olivia's picture carefully between the photo of his mother and the small laminated news article of his first dirt-track win.

"I bet she's got you wrapped around her little finger."

McCormick shrugged, not sure how to answer the remark. Cassie snorted delicately, obviously taking his shrug as an affirmative. She picked up her book again, and as she read quietly, Mark wondered if someone he'd never met could already have him spellbound.

 _Well, look at the facts, McCormick_. He was flying cross-country, possibly against his doctor's advice and definitely against Hardcastle's, on borrowed money. He hadn't made the final decision on leaving until after supper last night, when he'd at last gotten a hold of Teddy Hollins. Before his unsuccessful nap, Mark had tried Teddy at home and next at the restaurant, eventually having to leave a message for the elusive night manager. Mark's third attempt had finally reached Teddy, and he had barely started explaining the need for a short-term loan before Teddy had interrupted him. "Skid, whatever you need," his former cellmate had pledged. "Just tell me when, where, and how much."

When had been at three-thirty in the morning, the soonest Teddy could get to Gulls' Way after shutting down the bar at Jack's. Where had been a good distance away from the driveway, so the judge wouldn't hear an engine rumbling up in the pre-dawn hours. And how much had been much more than Mark had expected. When Teddy had pulled up at the airport, he'd pressed an envelope in McCormick's hand. Mark had opened it to riffle through the twenties in amazement.

"Teddy, this is too much. I have _some_ money – I just needed maybe another hundred."

Teddy had grinned. "Hey, I know last-minute ticket prices have gotta be pretty steep. And then you gotta buy snacks or a magazine or something, right?"

"Where'd you get this, Teddy? There has to be two hundred in here."

The other man had shrugged nonchalantly. "A little from the register, a little petty cash." When Mark had stared at him in open-mouthed shock, Teddy had elaborated. "It's what I could find in the middle of the night. Don't worry – I'll go to my bank when it opens, and get out enough to replace it. It's okay, Skid."

"Teddy, I can't take this! I don't want to get you in trouble!" McCormick had started to push the envelope back to his friend.

Teddy had shaken his head adamantly, refusing to take any of the money back. But the gesture had been followed up with concern. "You're sure you can't tell Hardcase about this? He'd help you, wouldn't he? I mean, that guy's got money comin' out the wazoo, right?"

Mark had sighed, shaking his own head. "The judge and I don't really see eye-to-eye on this. If I said something about leaving to Hardcastle, he'd find a way to keep me here. He'd handcuff me to himself if he had to." He'd looked imploringly at Teddy then. "And I know he'll be looking for me, and he might come after you. You don't have to lie for me. Just stall him. Once I'm on the plane, I don't care what he knows. I just need a few hours on him, is all."

"Sure, Skid." Teddy had nodded, and then his brow had furrowed slightly. "But I don't get why the judge would want to stop you from seeing your kid. I mean, it's _your kid_."

McCormick knew he couldn't tell Teddy the whole story, of the possible PKD diagnosis, the new medication, and the ultrasound appointment he definitely wasn't going to keep. Teddy was softhearted to a fault, and while it meant that he would do whatever Mark needed, whether it was a ride to the airport or a considerable loan of money, it also meant that he might go directly to Hardcastle if he thought Mark's health was below par. McCormick had settled on the same word that he was unaware Marty had also used to describe the situation: "It's complicated."

Teddy had left it at that. He hadn't had a reason to doubt his friend, and he'd wished Mark well. And McCormick had entered the airport with the envelope of money, his backpack and a small duffel, and a growing sense of guilt. He'd now hoodwinked two good friends, so he could impulsively pick up and leave for New York on a six a.m. flight. To see a nine-year-old who, as he thought about it now, most likely did have him "wrapped around her little finger." Not an easy task, considering he'd never met her and she probably still knew nothing about him. But there it was.

When the plane landed in Detroit, Mark went one way to catch his flight to White Plains, and Cassie headed in the other direction, to find her connecting flight to Madison. Mark was sorry to see her go – not only had she been enjoyable to talk to, she'd also taken his mind off of both his aversion to flying and his recurrent back pain. McCormick's neighbor on the flight from Detroit to White Plains was nowhere near as friendly – a man in a suit and tie, he kept his nose buried deeply in _The_ _Wall Street Journal_. He barely gave Mark a glance for the hour and a half that they rubbed elbows, even as Mark started to fidget, attempting to find a comfortable position that wouldn't aggravate his back. When the flight attendant came by with the drink cart, Mark gladly took a proffered beverage. A quick search in his backpack located the bottle of aspirin he'd purchased at the pharmacy the day before, and McCormick disposed of four of the pills with a grateful swallow of water. By the time the plane touched down in New York, his back pain had again diminished to manageable levels.

McCormick was able to procure a cab without too much of a wait, and was even able to tip the airport employee who'd called the taxi, thanks to the extra cash he had from Teddy. Sliding into the back of the cab and giving the driver Martina's address, he was soon on the last leg of his journey.

In less than a half hour, he'd meet his daughter.

* * *

McCormick paid the cabbie, then looked uncertainly at the two-story house with the gray siding and the rose-colored shutters. "Stay here a minute, okay? I just have to make sure this is the right place."

McCormick rose from the cab, hesitated for a fraction of a second, and then paced slowly up the walk. He had his backpack slung over one shoulder and his duffel bag in his hand, and he suddenly became aware of how much he resembled a teenage runaway. _Okay, a well-aged teenage runaway_.

He was standing at the door, vacillating between ringing the doorbell or knocking, when the door was opened from the inside. Mark found himself facing Sandra Rivera. He was immediately gratified that he had asked the cabbie to wait.

"Mark?"

He nodded silently. He was speechless, his mouth dry.

Sandra frowned, then glanced behind her. "Did Martina know you were coming? She didn't say anything."

Mark found his voice, but it was still hoarse. "Marty's . . . here? When you – when I saw you – I thought she gave me the wrong address."

"Why would it be wrong? I live here, too."

McCormick was still trying to comprehend that, and what that meant in relation to his presence, when Martina came up behind her mother. "Mark, my God!" She was staring at him in astonishment. "What are you doing here?"

Just seeing the younger woman made all of the stress and pain drop from Mark's body. He felt the hours of weary traveling disappear in response to her surprised smile of delight.

"I thought I'd return the favor. Unexpectedly show up on your doorstep."

Martina reached around her mother, grabbing Mark's arm and pulling him inside. He was able to hastily wave off the taxi before the door was shut, and then he was standing self-consciously in the entryway. The two women studied him, one with happiness, the other with suspicion.

"Um . . . I hope this is okay." Mark's eyes moved back and forth between the two women's expressions.

Martina still had a hold of his arm, and she gave it a light squeeze. "Of course it's okay. I just wish you would have called. I didn't think –" She broke off, and taking his other arm, held him at arm's length with an intent gaze. "You said you were going to the doctor," she confronted him.

"I did. See? They drew blood." He pulled his right arm free, and pushed up the sleeve to show her the bruise from the blood test. Unfortunately, Martina focused only on the other new bruises, again from Hardcastle's grip. "What happened here?" she exclaimed, and hearing the concern in her daughter's voice, Sandra moved in for a closer look. McCormick lowered his sleeve and moved back a step, bumping into the door with his back. He watched Sandra with a guarded expression.

"It's nothing important," he heard himself saying, even as he watched the older woman's eyes narrow in patent disbelief. He turned to look at Martina. "Hey, if anything was that seriously wrong, I wouldn't have been able to fly, right?"

Before Martina could answer, Sandra sighed impatiently and walked away. Mark took the opportunity to change the subject, becoming a little confrontational himself.

"You know, you could have told me she lived here with you. Given me some kind of warning."

"Why?" Martina challenged. "I didn't know you were coming. And of course she lives with us. She's raised Olivia as much as I have. I needed her, being a single parent –"

Martina fell silent. They stared at each other awkwardly. The duffel bag in Mark's hand suddenly felt very heavy, and his head began to throb. He lifted his hand to rub his head, and the backpack slipped off his shoulder. When he adjusted his stance to catch it, a spasm of pain shot through his back.

"Mark, come here. Sit down."

Martina led him into combination dining room/kitchen, and motioned him to a chair. She watched him carefully as he sunk down with a tired sigh. McCormick lowered the duffel to the floor, and dropped his backpack on top of it. After looking around cautiously for Sandra, he inquired about the one resident who had yet to make an appearance.

"Is she here?"

Martina smiled. "She's next door. The neighbor's cat just had kittens – I couldn't keep her away. But she should be back any time."

Mark felt light-headed. Now that the anticipated encounter was imminent, he was terrified _. What will she be like? What will she think of_ _ **me**_ _? What if she hates me? What the hell am I doing here?_ He swallowed audibly and dragged his fingers through his hair.

"Mark." Martina pulled out a chair, sitting next to him. She took his hands and looked at him steadily. "Take it easy. We can do this slowly. She doesn't know about you. You're my friend. Just a friend."

McCormick shook his head, disgusted. "How can I come all this way and chicken out? This is ridiculous. What am I so scared about?"

Martina laughed softly. "Well, I had nine months. You've had two days."

Mark nodded, but still looked downcast. Martina rose suddenly, then held out a hand.

"Do you want to see her room?"

ooOoo

Mark followed Martina down the hallway, to the room at which it ended. Looking around as he stepped inside, he almost tripped over a small pile of shoes near the doorway. Martina murmured a low curse. "That girl," she said next, and bent to gather up what were several pair of Chuck Taylor All Star high-tops. She continued: "She's been obsessed with these ever since she saw _Back to the Future_. We can't get her to wear anything else." As the woman carried the sneakers to the closet, Mark smiled faintly, recalling a similar pair of black high-tops he'd had as a kid. _I wore those things into the ground_ , he remembered fondly.

McCormick moved to the center of the room, taking it all in. On the closet door was a movie-sized poster for _The Princess Bride_. Tacked up on the wall was another large poster, this one of Johnny Depp as his character in _21 Jump Street_. The bed was made, but the sheets were wrinkled and haphazard. There was a desk against one wall, with a cork board above it. Pinned to the cork board was an assortment of hospital bracelets. Mark gravitated toward them, reaching his hand out to lightly touch the plastic bands.

Martina put a hand on his shoulder, and when he turned he saw she was tipping her head toward a small alcove located between the closet wall and the outside wall. Centered in the alcove was an armoire that held an elaborate stereo system. The stereo was flanked on both sides by wooden cases full of cassette tapes. Each case easily held fifty tapes. In addition to that, numerous compact disc cases surrounded the stereo components.

"She listens to all of these?" McCormick leaned forward, reading the names.

"If she's in here, there's music playing," Martina responded.

There were selections that he could understand a nine-year-old girl listening to. Duran Duran, George Michael, The Bangles. But then. . .

"The Who? _Zeppelin_? Really?" As he read farther, it seemed he was looking at his own music collection. Simon  & Garfunkel. Pink Floyd. Creedence Clearwater. Queen. Talking Heads.

"Mom? Mom!"

Light footsteps came running down the hall. Mark hung back in the alcove near the stereo, barely breathing.

Olivia burst into the room, her face flushed and her curls tangled. The laces of her red Chuck Taylors were undone. "Mom, you should see them! They are so teeny tiny! There's two orange ones, and a calico, and. . . " The girl's voice trailed off as she noticed the stranger standing in her room. "Uh. . ." Her eyes tracked from Mark to her mother.

"Olivia, this is a friend of mine. Mark." Martina moved back to take Mark's hand. "I was just showing him your music collection."

"Okay." Olivia gave the tall, curly-haired man a skeptical look. "Um, hi."

McCormick stared back silently. Martina squeezed his hand. "Breathe," she whispered.

Mark took in a deep breath. "Hi," he said, hoping that his inner trembling didn't show in his voice.

Olivia came forward, studying Mark fixedly. "Do I know you?" she asked quietly.

Mark gave an involuntary half-laugh. "No. No, I don't think so."

"Mark's from California, honey. I don't think there's any way you would know him," Martina explained.

Olivia looked suspiciously at their joined hands. "He's the friend you went to see in California? And now he's here?"

Neither Mark nor Martina had an answer for that. Martina released Mark's hand clumsily.

Olivia stepped closer to Mark, the same introspective look on her face. "You look really familiar."

"I do?" McCormick's voice cracked. He looked at Martina with a mystified expression. "I look familiar," he repeated.

"What is your name?" Olivia asked abruptly.

"Mark. Mark McCormick."

Now Olivia was backing up. Her eyes had become slightly unfocused. " _Skid_ -Mark," she said thoughtfully.

The light-headedness returned in full force. Mark grabbed onto the nearby bedpost, breathing deep as he tried to keep his head from swimming. He heard Martina ask, "How do you _know_ that?" and then was vaguely aware of Olivia moving to her dresser.

Olivia pulled out the first drawer of her dresser far enough so she could reach her hand underneath it. Feeling around for a few moments, she finally pulled out a weathered envelope that had been taped to the bottom of the dresser drawer. Clutching the envelope tightly, she approached McCormick. Mark thought idly of all of the envelopes he'd been presented with in the last few days, and choked back a nervous laugh.

Olivia opened the envelope, taking out a small, equally weathered newspaper clipping. She held it out to Mark.

"Is this you?"

McCormick looked at the paper in the young girl's hand, and really thought he should sit down. He moved around to drop heavily on the bed.

Martina grasped her daughter's wrist, staring at the clipping. The small newspaper article was entitled "New Face to Watch - 'Skid' Mark McCormick Garners his First Win of Season." It included a headshot of the driver. The fifteen-year-old photo showed a younger version of the man seated on the bed.

"Where did you get that?" Martina demanded.

Olivia didn't respond, still waiting for confirmation from Mark. Instead of answering her question, he slowly pulled his wallet from his pocket, opening it to produce the identical newspaper clipping that Olivia was holding. "My first win," he said softly.

"So this _is_ you."

"Olivia!" Martina's voice was sharp. "Where did you get that!"

"I gave it to her."

The trio looked to the doorway, where Sandra Rivera stood imposingly. Martina looked at her mother in amazement. "Mom?"

"It was when she started pre-school. All of the other children had fathers, even the ones whose parents had been divorced. I didn't want her to feel different, to feel less. I didn't know she still had it." Sandra gave her granddaughter a small smile. "I guess I didn't realize how much it meant to her."

Olivia inhaled shakily, and then turned back to Mark. With him seated on the bed, they were at eye level, and she stared into the blue eyes that were almost the same color as her own.

"You're my father."

Mark stared back, and a sudden feeling of pride and protection washed over him, overwhelming any fear or doubt. It was something he'd never felt before, and at the same time it seemed as natural as breathing.

"Hiya, kiddo," he said.


	16. Chapter 16

**_Inheritance Tax_ by InitialLuv**

 **Chapter Sixteen**

Olivia Rivera stood riveted, pinned by her father's candid smile.

 _My father._ This man, this Mark McCormick, was her father.

 _Okay, I kinda already knew that, Grandma gave me that news article when I was a little kid._ She'd looked at it so often, staring at the young man with the dimpled grin and the curly hair, that she knew the brief article by heart. She could repeat it by memory, and there were times when she had. When she'd had a fight with her mother, when there had been a father-daughter event at school, when she'd felt utterly alone. Then Olivia would retreat to her room and close the door, turn her music on loud, and take the clipping out of the envelope. She would lie on her bed and close her eyes and speak the words quietly.

" _McCormick, protégé of Johnny 'Flip' Johnson, took his first checkered flag on Sunday. After placing second in the preliminary heat, McCormick earned a prime position in the sprints feature, and never looked back."_

And then she'd stare at the picture, wishing that things could have been different. That she had a real flesh-and-blood father, not just one that existed in a newspaper clipping.

But now that he was before her, actually _there_ , able to be touched, she could only think of one thing.

"Where _were_ you?" she burst out, hitching back a sob.

The warm smile was replaced by an apprehensive frown. Mark - _Dad_ \- looked quickly at her mother, and then lowered his eyes with a soft exhale. There was a moment of silence so thick, Olivia felt like she couldn't breathe.

"He didn't know about you."

Mark looked up. His frown had cleared, but the apprehension was still present.

Olivia turned her head, looking quizzically at her mother. "What do you mean?" she asked, her voice still trembling.

"I didn't tell him I was pregnant. He didn't know." Martina's voice was soft, and she moved toward her daughter, reaching out to touch her shoulder. Olivia flinched from the touch, and backed away, moving closer to Mark.

"I don't understand. Why wouldn't you tell him?"

This time her mother dropped her head, avoiding her daughter's eyes. Olivia looked from her mother to Mark, and was startled to see that he was glaring acidly at her grandmother.

"Why don't you ask _her_ why I didn't know about you."

Sandra was returning Mark's glare with a practical, unapologetic gaze. Olivia swiveled her head between the two, bewildered by Mark's open hostility.

"Grandma?"

Sandra broke her gaze with Mark to take a long look at her granddaughter. Finally the older woman shook her head with a resigned sigh. "If we're going to discuss this, I think we'd better go sit down."

Mark spoke from where he was still seated on the bed. "I'm already sitting down." He took quiet satisfaction in Sandra's annoyed expression.

In a heartbeat, Olivia was sitting on the bed next to him. She crossed her arms, lifted her chin defiantly, and said, "So am I."

McCormick gaped at the girl in wonder. She smiled back in solidarity, and Mark felt a foolish grin spread across his face.

"This isn't what I meant. . . " Sandra looked to her daughter for support. Martina shrugged, pulled out the chair from Olivia's desk, and sat down.

"Guess you'd better grab a chair, Mom."

ooOoo

Once all four were seated – Sandra still near the doorway, but now occupying a chair from the kitchen – a feeling of tension settled over the group. Olivia shifted restlessly and started to play with her hair. "Honey," Martina said in a warning tone. "Stop that. Pretty soon all you'll have are tangles, and we'll have to cut it all off."

"Don't you dare." McCormick spoke the words with a low ferocity that he had a hard time understanding.

"She's not serious." Olivia rolled her eyes, but she pulled her hand away from her hair and placed it primly in her lap.

Sandra cleared her throat, and waited until three faces were turned her way. Nodding shortly, she addressed her granddaughter.

"Olivia, it would make sense that you have the most questions – "

"I have a few," McCormick interrupted. When Sandra and Martina both seemed unhappy with his comment, he ducked his head in apology. "Sorry. Go on."

Sandra continued. "Olivia, we'll tell you whatever you need to know."

McCormick had to stifle a snort. "Need" to know versus "want" to know. He wondered if Olivia had picked up on the syntax.

Olivia sat quietly for a few moments, studying her untied shoes. When she raised her head, she first looked at her mother, and then at the man seated next to her.

"Were you two in love?"

Mark blinked. He opened his mouth, closed it, and took a breath. When he shot a quick glance at Martina, he saw that she was as dumbstruck as he was.

"Are you sure that's what you want to start with?" McCormick asked, attempting a smile that ended up feeling somewhat wooden. "I mean, I don't know . . . Why not ask something easy, like how old I am?"

Olivia studied him soberly. Her eyes traveled from his face to his clothing – a short-sleeved Henley-style tee shirt, khakis, and his newest Nikes. Then the girl was gazing at his face again. Mark fidgeted slightly, trying to retain the smile.

Finally, Olivia nodded to herself. "Thirty-four," she concluded.

Mark's smile faded. "What? Well, not _yet._ Not for another few weeks." He could hear Martina laughing quietly, and he gave her a withering look. "Do _you_ want to answer her question first?" he offered.

The laughing stopped rather quickly. "You can go first – I'm actually a little curious about your answer myself," Martina admitted.

McCormick sighed deeply, trying to relax. The room was so quiet he could hear the soft buzz of cicadas outside. _Little early in the summer for them out here_ , he thought absentmindedly.

"Okay." Mark took another deep breath. "In love." He looked sidelong at Olivia. "We were young. Not as young as you, but young." He smiled wistfully. "I don't think we thought of what we had in those terms. But it was more than friends. It was . . . _more_. I don't really know how to explain it. Your mother meant a lot to me. She was the first person I was serious about. Well, as serious as you can get at fifteen." Mark turned to Martina, and was momentarily startled to see her gazing at him with tears in her eyes. Martina crossed the back of her hand over her eyes, gave herself a little shake, and then smiled at him encouragingly.

Mark went on, slowly. "And even when we were apart. . . It was like I was still kinda linked to her. Anyone I dated after your mom, I sort of compared them to her. I held her up as some kind of test –"

"A litmus test?" Olivia provided.

McCormick grinned. "Yeah, okay. Although that wasn't really fair to your mom, or to the other girls I dated. To make them have to live up to whatever idea I had in my head of what your mom had meant to me. I think I let my imagination get away with me a little, made things more romantic than they were." He looked at Martina again, and addressed her. "But you have to understand, what you did for me – you were probably the best thing that could have happened to me back then. I don't know what I would've done if I hadn't gone to you after – After." He avoided mentioning his mother's death, both because it was still so difficult, and also because he wasn't ready to get into that subject with Olivia.

Olivia was listening pensively. When she realized Mark had finished, she cocked her head at her mother.

"Mom?"

Martina smiled sadly. "Mark's right – we were young. But we connected. And there was love there." She paused, and when Mark looked at her, she met his eyes. "It was why I hoped to find you, when I saw your uncle's obituary. I hated how things had gone the last time we saw each other, and knowing you might be so close. . . I just needed to see you. Long-distance cards and flowers couldn't say what needed to be said."

Sandra made a sudden huffing noise. Martina looked at her, distracted. "What, Mom?"

The older woman waved a hand dismissively. "Nothing. I was just wondering exactly how much talking happened during that 'reunion'."

McCormick felt heated anger spreading through him, and his body tensed as his senses seemed to heighten. The cicadas were louder. The hair on his arms tingled. He could feel the hum of the air conditioning through his feet.

"What does that matter?" he said. "We were adults. And I don't think you're entirely disappointed by the result." He indicated Olivia. "The only thing you were disappointed in was that _I'm_ her father, and you did a pretty good job of keeping that quiet for ten years!" Mark's voice had become rough and loud.

"Mark, calm down," Martina begged.

McCormick glared at her. "Why? Why should I put up with this?"

"She gave her that article," Martina pointed out. "She did tell her about you. Olivia knew about you."

"Yeah, but she told me he was dead."

Mark's face, previously reddened in anger, now blanched in shock. "She _what_?"

Olivia gave her father an embarrassed half-shrug. "She told me you died. In a crash, in one of your races." The girl turned to Martina. "That's why I never showed you that article. Grandma told me not to – she said that if I showed it to you, or talked to you about Mark, you'd be sad."

Mark stared at Sandra. "You killed me off," he said in quiet disbelief.

Sandra refused to look his way. She grimaced slightly.

"I can't believe this." McCormick rose from the bed, and had to drop his head briefly to wait out a short dizzy spell. _I thought I was done with those._ He then began to pace, and continued to rant at Sandra. "Just when I think you've done something decent, when I think that maybe I've been wrong about you, you pull the rug out from under me. And I don't get it. I just don't get why you hate me so much."

"I don't hate you, Mark. I never hated you."

"You could've fooled me." McCormick stopped pacing to face the older woman. "You never gave me a chance. Not from the start. Thank God Marty wasn't like that."

"Martina wasn't thinking clearly," Sandra said. Martina inhaled, ready to respond, but her mother pressed on. "I could see the path you were on, and I didn't want her to be dragged along with you. I didn't think it was fair for her to have to pay for your mistakes."

"What mistakes? What had I done at that point?" Mark questioned hotly. "You were just waiting for me to screw up, so you had some reason to get rid of me. You were probably thrilled when I hit that guy in the hospital. Just like you were relieved when I got arrested, so you could convince Marty to not tell me she was pregnant."

"I wasn't 'relieved'," Sandra hedged. "I wasn't surprised. After everything that happened when you were young – stealing the car, juvenile hall, not being able to follow rules in the foster homes –"

"How do you know all of that?" McCormick felt a slight wave of dizziness return. "Were you keeping track of me? Why?"

"What's going on?" Olivia asked plaintively. When Mark turned at her voice, he saw she was also standing, and was now looking his way with barely restrained tears. Mark tried to think of a response, but his head felt muddled and confused. Before he could sort through the haze, Martina and Sandra were both approaching the girl to console her.

"Olivia, settle down," Sandra said, while Martina placed her hands on the young girl's shoulders. "Why don't you sit down again, honey," Martina requested, soft but firm.

"I'm not gonna get sick again just because I'm upset. Leave me alone!" Olivia brushed off her mother's hands. "I just want to know what's going on. You said I could ask questions. I don't understand any of this. Grandma, why do you and Mark –" Olivia shifted her gaze from her grandmother to her father, and suddenly changed her questioning. "What's wrong?" she cried out.

Martina and Sandra turned simultaneously, to see that Mark was seated in the chair by the doorway, his head in his hands. He was breathing erratically and in obvious pain.

Martina was at his side as quickly as she had previously attended to her daughter. "Mark. Mark? What is it?" When the only response she received was a curt shake of his head, she knelt before him and took his hands down, so she could see his face. Martina touched his cheek gently, and then drew back to look at her mother in concern. "Mom, he's burning up. Something's wrong."

Mark shook his head again. "I'm okay," he rasped. "Just tired. Jet lag."

"Jet lag doesn't give you a fever. Why can't you just admit you're sick, Mark?" Martina asked in frustration.

Olivia came up slowly to stand behind her mother. "He's sick. He has what I have," she said bluntly.

Martina turned briefly to look at her daughter in surprise. Olivia returned the look with an irritated expression of impatience. "I know it's inherited. And you're not sick. I'm not stupid, I knew I must have gotten it from my father. I just didn't know my father was alive."

Sandra was approaching the trio with a thermometer she had retrieved from the bathroom. "Mark. Let me get your temperature."

McCormick pushed her away weakly. "Stop it. What's the hell with those cicadas? You got some kind of swarm out there?"

Sandra cut her eyes to her daughter, then attempted the thermometer again. Mark finally gave in, too exhausted to continue his protests. Martina touched her mother on the shoulder. "Cicadas?" she repeated quietly. "What is he talking about?"

Sandra kept her voice pitched low as well. "It could be tinnitus. Or maybe he's confused by the fever. I don't know."

Olivia watched as the two women hovered over Mark. After a few moments she asked, "What's tinnitus?"

"Ringing in the ears," Sandra answered distractedly. She retrieved the thermometer and read the results with an ease that came from much practice. McCormick was sitting rigid in the chair, staring ahead with unfocused eyes. He lifted his hands and pressed them against his ears, released them, and then repeated the movement.

Sandra bent closer to him. "Mark, where does it hurt? Where's the worst of the pain?"

It was a moment before Mark answered, and the older woman was unsure if it was because he was hesitant to reply truthfully, or if he was having a hard time comprehending the question. Finally he confessed, "Mostly my lower back. Aspirin usually helps. I just need the bottle from my backpack."

Sandra had seen Mark's things earlier, when she had gotten the kitchen chair. She now beckoned to her granddaughter. "Go grab his backpack, please. It's in the kitchen." Olivia quickly left the room, eager to help. Once she was gone, Sandra backed away from Mark, and spoke softly to Martina. "His temperature's 102.5. I can't be positive, but he might have an infection."

Olivia rushed back into the room, carrying the canvas backpack. Mark reached for it, but before he could grasp it Sandra had taken it from Olivia's hands. She opened it and began to explore the contents. "Hey!" McCormick groused, again reaching for the backpack. Sandra ignored him, and soon had three pill bottles in her hands. She read the prescription bottles quickly, and then held up the half-empty bottle of aspirin. "How much of this have you been taking?" she asked, looking hard at Mark.

He looked away. "Just what I needed."

"Does your doctor or pharmacist know that?"

McCormick shrugged noncommittally.

Sandra straightened her shoulders and nodded decisively. "Well, we'll take these with us. They'll need to know what medications you've been taking."

"What are you talking about?" Mark looked up anxiously.

"I'm taking you to the emergency room," Sandra answered, and before Mark could attempt a protest, she held up a stern hand. "You have a fever of close to 103, you're apparently in a good deal of pain, and probably have been for a while. Not to mention you look miserable. You can blame it on jet lag or stress or whatever else you want to use as an excuse, but I think we both know what's really going on. You're going to see a doctor. No argument."

McCormick glared back. He was ready to deliver an obstinate retort when he was suddenly aware of a tight grip on his right hand. He looked down to see that Olivia was grasping his hand in both of hers.

"Please?" she said. "Please listen to her." She gave him a look that Mark could only describe as "puppy-dog eyes." _What is that goofy saying? Holstered by my own leotard? No . . . that's not right. Yeah, you're out of it, McCormick._

"Okay," he relented, "I'll go." And any lingering aversion he had at conceding to Sandra was extinguished by the absolute relief on his daughter's face.

* * *

The siren, most likely attached to an ambulance, was what woke him.

Distant at first, it rose in volume until it sounded like it was right outside the window. He opened his eyes and blearily gazed in that direction. He saw it was almost light outside. _What time is it?_ He knew it had probably only been a few hours since the nurse was last in to check his temperature and blood pressure and to generally annoy him, but when had that been? He tried to lift his arm to look at his watch, but the IV attached to his arm pulled painfully.

Well, at least the pain in his back had subsided some since he'd been admitted the last evening. He supposed he had the medicine in the IV to thank for that. Although he still felt feverish and wrung out, and the hateful cicadas were still there. He lifted his right arm and pressed his ears shut, one at a time. The high-pitched whining buzz persisted. "Damn it," he muttered, closing his eyes and sinking back into the pillow.

"You awake, kiddo?"

Mark McCormick opened his eyes again, and turned toward the voice. Milton C. Hardcastle was seated in a chair on the right side of his hospital bed.


	17. Chapter 17

_**Inheritance Tax**_ **by InitialLuv**

 **Chapter Seventeen**

Hardcastle waited for a response. McCormick stared at him wordlessly.

"Still a little out of it, huh?" Milt said. He turned on the light above Mark's bed, adjusting it to a low level.

Mark looked around the room slowly, then turned his gaze back to Hardcastle. "Judge?"

Hardcastle nodded. "Mornin'. How're you feeling?"

Mark shook his head. "How – when did you get here? How did you find me?"

"You think I couldn't track you down?" Milt asked. "For a Tonto, you should be better at not leaving a trail. And here I thought with the 'sneakers and concrete' here, you'd be in your element."

"I wasn't trying to not leave a trail. I just wanted a head start." Mark fumbled around for the bed control, unable to focus in his drowsy state. Hardcastle swatted his hand away, taking over the button. "Lemme do that." He raised the head of the bed until Mark lifted a hand in a "stop" gesture.

"Thanks."

The judge grunted something that might have been "'Welcome."

"What time is it?"

"Just after six. I've been here a little while – now that your fever's down they finally let me in here. But you weren't much company. I was ready to doze off myself."

"It can't be visiting hours this early in the morning," McCormick pointed out.

Hardcastle shrugged. "They make an exception for emergency contacts, I guess. Especially ones that fly cross-country."

Mark looked at his friend blankly. "How did they know – They got in touch with you?"

Milt leaned back in his chair. "How much do you remember about how you got here?"

McCormick sighed, lifted his left arm to rub his head, and was stopped by the IV again. He groaned, letting his arm fall back.

The drive to the White Plains emergency room had been fairly uneventful, other than Mark's steadily growing back pain, and his sudden inability to get warm. But by the time he'd been assessed by a doctor, things had abruptly gone downhill. The back pain had spread to his abdomen, he'd become nauseous, and then he'd started hyperventilating. He'd been tortured with blood and urine tests, and the damn ER doctor had practically made him scream, palpating the area near his right kidney with a bland "Tell me if this hurts." At that point Mark had turned into a rather recalcitrant patient.

Then, apparently it wasn't good enough to just decide he had a kidney infection – the urinalysis had also shown there was evidence of a probable kidney stone. That had resulted in him getting carted off to Radiology, where the technician had just about made him stand on his head in order to get a clear x-ray. But when the presence of a stone was finally confirmed, Mark had lost interest. It was at about that time when his nausea had progressed to vomiting, his fever had spiked, and things had begun to blur. He remembered Sandra being there, and that she'd been surprisingly helpful, answering questions for him when he couldn't, and offering information that he hadn't realized she'd known . . . Like about Charlie. At some point a doctor had contacted Charlie, and –

"I think I remember them calling Charlie." Mark looked to Milt for confirmation. When the man nodded, Mark continued. "Was that it? Was that how you found me?"

"Well, it helped that I was already here. But once the plane landed I was a little stuck on where to go next. I called Frank from the airport to let him know I landed, and he told me that Charlie'd been trying to reach me. Imagine my surprise to find out you were a cab ride away."

"How were you already here?" McCormick felt like he had missed something, and he wasn't sure if it was fatigue, fever, or Hardcastle just being stubbornly evasive.

"Well, I just did a little detective work," Milt bragged. After a brief pause he added, "Frank helped."

McCormick made a beckoning gesture, directing the judge to keep talking.

"I didn't know exactly when you left, but I knew you probably either called a cab or got a ride," Hardcastle went on. "Didn't think you'd take a chance with the bus. We checked the cab companies and none had been out near the estate during the time I'd guessed you took off. So that left 'got a ride.' Barely had to rack my brain to pick Teddy as the most likely suspect."

Mark made a face, but didn't speak. Milt continued.

"Teddy wasn't too cooperative at first. Does he even know my name's Hard _castle_?" the judge griped. "Anyway, once I told him you were sick he started blabbing about what airline gate he dropped you off at, what time your flight was, the whole story. I couldn't get him to shut up."

McCormick was looking at Hardcastle sternly. "That was a lousy thing to do to Ted. Using him like that."

"Whaddaya call what you did to him, sport? Only telling him half of the story so you could get him to help you sneak out?"

Mark turned away with a dejected sigh. "I know. You're right." He closed his eyes; he felt emotionally and physically drained. Hardcastle adjusted himself on the chair, and quietly waited to see if the kid was going to fall back to sleep.

Milt's head was starting to nod again when McCormick spoke.

"When did you get here?"

Hardcastle roused himself, then looked at his watch and frowned. "Forgot to turn this ahead." He raised his eyes to the ceiling and calculated. "Must've been close to eleven, last night. And then it took almost an hour before I could find someone to tell me anything. I was ready to pull rank." He studied the man in the bed. "You still haven't told me how you're feeling."

"Yeah." McCormick pushed at his right ear again. "Better, I guess. Not so much pain right now. I'm still pretty tired. And my damn ears won't stop ringing."

"What's that?" Hardcastle questioned. "What about your ears?"

"It started at Marty's. I thought I was hearing cicadas at first, but then the sound was everywhere, all the time. I think the doctor was concentrating more on the kidney stone and the infection and didn't really know what I was talking about, or he just ignored me. I wasn't being very respectful." Hardcastle snorted, and a sheepish look crossed Mark's face. "I was actually thankful Sandra was here – she was the one who made sure someone finally listened to me. Anyway, they said it's from the aspirin. Sali-something poisoning."

Milt stared at him in silence for a few moments. "How in the hell do you get aspirin poisoning? How much were you taking?"

"Three at a time, sometimes four. But that was only the last couple days," McCormick defended quickly.

"How often?"

Mark sighed again. "The last day or so it was every two or three hours. I really didn't realize how much I was taking until Sandra asked me about it. I guess they gave me something in the IV to help flush it out of my system." He jiggled the arm with the IV port. "When you add in the antibiotics and the pain meds, it's like a whole cocktail in here."

Hardcastle didn't respond. He rubbed the back of his neck, his face set in a grim expression. McCormick, noticing the silence, looked at the older man apprehensively.

"Judge?"

Hardcastle shook his head slowly. "Why did you go and do this, McCormick?"

"I didn't do it on purpose. I told you, I didn't know how much – "

"I'm not talking about the aspirin." The judge scowled. "I mean flying out here alone – after I _told_ you not to – and getting everyone worried about you. I had to call Charlie and let him know you took off, I had to ask Frank to help me find you – Charlie was still in his office after seven last night, hoping I'd call when my plane landed, so he could tell me you were in the damn hospital."

It was McCormick's turn to be silent. He turned away from Hardcastle and looked back out the window at the rapidly lightening sky. Even from his viewpoint, he could see the brilliant blue, dotted with a few fluffy white clouds. It looked like it was going to be a beautiful day outside.

"Do you know how old my mom was when she died?"

Milt sat up a little straighter, slightly alarmed by the non-sequitur. "Ah, I don't –"

"Thirty-four," Mark supplied, not even seeming to hear Hardcastle's flustered words. He turned back to look at the judge with a weary resignation.

"I knew if I went to that appointment, and got a definite diagnosis, then nothing would ever be the same," McCormick explained. "I'd have to have more tests, and I might end up on more – or different – medication, and I'd have to change _everything_ , and then it still might not be enough. It might never be enough. And I knew if that happened, that I'd never get out here. I'd never meet my kid. At least, not on my terms. And that wasn't acceptable.

"I didn't mean to cause so much trouble, Judge. I'm sorry I cut out. But you can understand why I did it, can't you?"

"And you didn't think you could tell me this? You had to take off and leave me guessing?"

Mark shook his head firmly. "I knew it wouldn't matter to you. You'd make sure I kept that ultrasound appointment. And that was just too much of an unknown for me. But don't worry – you got your way," he added with a touch of bitterness. "They've got me scheduled for an ultrasound today, so it's only a day late." He lifted his left arm again to check his watch, finally able to maneuver it without excessively pulling on the IV. What he saw was a bare wrist with a tan line where his watch should've been. Mark stared at his wrist for a beat, and then his hand flew up to his neck. It was also bare.

"Where's my stuff, Judge? Where's my watch and my medal?"

"I don't know, kiddo – I came a little late to the party, here. Who brought you in? Martina's mother?"

McCormick nodded, but still looked distressed. "And my wallet, too. Is any of my stuff in here? My clothes?"

Milt rose and began to check the drawers and closet. "Yeah, your clothes are here," he called over his shoulder from the closet. As he came back to the bed he added, "Nothing else, though. I can check with the desk, see if they've got the other stuff secured somewhere."

Mark nodded again, this time with a deep frown, and Milt could see the distress was now sliding into panic. He was ready to offer a calming word when he saw the kid's face was pale, and that he was suddenly breathing harder. _Damn it, now what?_

"You all right, McCormick? What's wrong?"

Mark swallowed, closing his eyes. "Uh, I think the pain medication's wearing off. Or the stone's moving. Oh, this is not good," he moaned.

Hardcastle grabbed the call button off the bed rail, pressing it with the speed of a game show contestant. He glanced quickly at the doorway before turning back to McCormick. "We'll get someone in here. They'll take care of you. Just relax, okay?"

* * *

"Olivia, slow down! They won't let you go in the room without me, anyway!"

Olivia turned back to her mother with a grin. "Wanna bet? They know me here."

Martina caught up to her daughter, who was waiting impatiently at the hospital entrance. "They know you in Pediatrics. Mark's on a different floor. Not to mention it isn't visiting hours yet."

"You already told me that. I don't care. I just want to be here." Olivia pushed through the revolving door, resisted the urge to do a second revolution just for fun, and then headed for the elevators.

Mother and daughter were in the elevator when Olivia spoke again. "And I'm still mad that you wouldn't let me come with Grandma yesterday," she complained.

Martina lifted her eyes to the ceiling. "And we already talked about _that_ , too. We wouldn't have been any help, and the shape Mark was in he probably wouldn't have even known we were here. Be mad if you want, but I was right to have you stay home with me."

Olivia grumbled something unintelligible. Martina shot her a glare. "Stop pouting. We can go back home."

"No!" The girl looked up with beseeching eyes. "I'll be good, I promise!"

The elevator had reached the fourth floor, and Martina exited, heading for the nurses' desk. As she passed a small waiting room, a slightly familiar voice called her name, making her pause.

"Ju – Milt?"

Olivia, suddenly aware that her mother had stopped, exhaled in agitation. " _Mo-oo-m_!"

Milt Hardcastle had been greeting Martina, and was ready to deliver a condensed version of how he had come to be there, when the whining call hit his ears. The familiarity was uncanny. It was like a parroting of how McCormick could turn "Judge" into a three-syllable word.

Noticing the look of amazement on the judge's face, Martina smiled, then summoned her daughter. "Olivia, come back here. I want you to meet someone."

Olivia started stomping back, saw her mother's warning look, and then immediately changed her pace to a subdued walk. She approached the two adults, looking up at the man with the bright blue eyes and the white hair under the New York Yankees baseball cap.

"Hello," the girl said pleasantly, enunciating carefully, "I'm Olivia Rivera." She held out a hand. "And you are?"

Milt couldn't help it. He laughed. Olivia's face contorted into a look of annoyance – _McCormick's_ look of annoyance – and that just set him off more. He thought if she were to mutter "Donkey!" under her breath, he wouldn't be at all surprised.

Hardcastle wiped a hand over his face, covering his mouth briefly as he tried to rein in his grin. "I'm sorry," he said, "It's just that she looks so much like . . ." he trailed off, suddenly not sure if all of the facts were out in the open. Although if the girl was in the hospital, presumably to visit McCormick, then she had to know that he was –

". . . my father?" Olivia finished Hardcastle's sentence. The judge nodded briefly, then looked meaningfully at Martina. She seemed to understand the gaze. "He got to our house yesterday afternoon, and this one," she laid a hand on Olivia's shoulder, "surprised both of us by actually knowing who he was. Apparently she has for several years, but was under the impression that he was dead." Martina shook her head crossly. "When all the dust has settled here and we're sure that Mark's on the mend, I still have to talk to my mother about that."

"Dead?" Milt asked, confused. He looked between the two, not exactly sure who would be best to answer his question.

Olivia's annoyance had changed to contempt. "My grandma's way of letting me know I had a dad, but still not letting him have any contact with me. And no one will tell me why!"

Martina squeezed her daughter's shoulder. "Olivia. Keep your voice down. We're in a hospital." The woman turned to Hardcastle. "Have you been able to talk to Mark about any of this yet? How long have you been here?"

Milt shook his head. "No, no specifics. I've been here a while but he was asleep for most of it. I finally got to talk to him about an hour ago, but he needed another dose of pain meds and that put him out again." He gestured back at the elevators. "I was just gonna head down to the cafeteria – there's coffee in the waiting room, but I need some food to go with it."

Martina nodded. "Do you want some company?" When Olivia started to say something, her mother spoke over her protests. "Mark's asleep, Olivia. We'll get something to eat and chat with Milt, and maybe by then he'll be awake again."

"I'm not hungry. I ate before we came," Olivia responded obstinately.

"A piece of toast is not enough. You need something more substantial, you know that. Some fruit or yogurt." Martina looked closely at her daughter. "With all of this excitement and stress, I don't need you to get sick on me, too. We're going to the cafeteria to eat something, sit quietly, and calm down."

Olivia raised her eyebrows. "How can we chat with him _and_ sit quietly?"

Milt started to chuckle again. "Definitely McCormick's kid. No doubt about it."

ooOoo

As her mother spoke to the man who had identified himself as Milt Hardcastle, a "good friend" of her father's, Olivia sat in the corner of the booth and listened quietly. She had found that making herself unobtrusive was the best way to learn certain things – if she seemed otherwise distracted, either by the television or a book or some project, sometimes her mother and grandmother would talk about things in front of her that they normally wouldn't. She thought that this visit to the cafeteria might be a similar situation. So she kept her head down, dipped her apple slices in her yogurt, and absorbed what she could.

Unfortunately, some of the information was a little difficult to grasp. She understood when the man said he was a retired judge, and figured he was probably around the same age as her grandmother, who had retired two years ago. But then he said something about how her father had been a "two-time loser" and a "rehabilitation project," and then made some allusion to Batman and Robin. Her mother responded in astonishment. Olivia thought maybe her mother was thinking the same as her: who was supposed to be who in that comic book equation? The man in the booth was old enough that he would be better cast as the butler, Alfred.

Then there was the way the man kept referring to her father as "McCormick," but hardly ever by his first name. There were even a few times when she thought he might have been talking about her, because he'd used the word "kid," but when she'd glanced up from her yogurt, neither adult had been looking at her.

Finally the little bit of information she'd been waiting for was revealed.

"Do you know where McCormick's watch and medallion ended up?" the man asked her mother. "I found out the hospital has his wallet locked up safe, but they didn't have the other things. He'd be pretty upset if he lost the medal."

Before her mother could answer, Olivia interrupted. "Mom, I have to go to the bathroom. Let me out." She squeezed past her mother to exit the booth, in the process knocking her mother's purse to the floor. "Olivia," he mother sighed, "Slow down."

"Sorry." Olivia bent to pick up the purse, pushing the loose items back inside. She shoved it back at her mother, and then quickly walked in the direction of the bathrooms. As soon as she was out of sight of the adults in the booth, she changed course and headed for the elevators.

When the doors closed and Olivia was alone in the elevator, ascending to the fourth floor, she opened her closed fist and held up the item she'd taken out of her mother's purse: a St. Jude medal on a silver chain.


	18. Chapter 18

_**Inheritance Tax**_ **by InitialLuv**

 **Chapter Eighteen**

Mark lay with his eyes closed, yet tensely alert, as the ringing in his ears fought the ache in his back and side for dominance. The noise in his ears was winning.

The pain was still numbed by the latest dose of painkiller he'd received, although there was the vague threat of a spontaneous flare-up, courtesy of the kidney stone that seemed determined to cause as much suffering as possible before exiting the premises. But the ringing – or rather, buzzing – in his ears hadn't reduced; in fact, now that he was more awake and had nothing to distract him, the inescapable noise was infuriatingly . . . deafening.

It wasn't like he'd never had ringing in his ears before. But it had always been an immediate reaction to a logical cause. When he was younger, it had occurred once or twice if he'd been in the pits – or sometimes even in the stands – of a race track without proper ear protection. More recently, the sources of tinnitus included getting clocked in the head, having a gun go off too close to his ears, or being in near proximity to an explosion. _Never worried about those kinds of things before I hooked up with Hardcastle_. On most occasions, the ringing in his ears had been brief and merely an annoyance. It also hadn't sounded exactly like this; typically, it had been a lower vibration that made everything sound like he had cotton in his ears.

The only thing that really compared to this current affliction was the way his ears had felt after the concert he'd gone to with Warren. It had been about three years ago, when he'd been seeing Andra Mason, the girl he'd met at night school. They'd been dating casually for a few months, and on a romantic impulse he had bought the tickets to see her favorite band in concert. Unfortunately, in between buying the pricey tickets and the date of the concert, Andra had broken up with him. It had been the standard "You're a really nice guy, Mark, but – " brush off, and after the initial depression, he'd actually been more upset about the money he'd spent than the dissolving of the relationship. He now had basically useless tickets to see a band from England that he knew little about – Tears for Fears.

As the date of the sold-out concert had drawn near, Mark had considered scalping the tickets. Hardcastle had put the kibosh on that notion pretty quickly, and considering he was still on parole, McCormick had reluctantly also abandoned the idea. But the younger man had still been moping about the lost money when Independence Day rolled around, and he'd been a somewhat moody host at the annual 4th of July get-together at Gulls' Way. Warren had been helping the two men clean up at the end of the party, and it was the judge who'd actually recommended that she accompany McCormick to the concert the next evening. Mark had been a little put out by the suggestion, not wanting to admit he needed a last-minute escort, but the outright permission to go out with the judge's only niece had finally trumped his wounded pride. He'd figured if he had to endure a band that he wasn't interested in, at least he'd be in good company.

The seats had been prime, right up near the stage and in front of several speakers. Mark had been captivated by the performance, amazed that he hadn't been more aware of the excellent band, and he hadn't even considered the closeness of the speakers. But well after he'd fought the after-concert traffic in Hollywood, dropped Warren off at home, and finally gotten back to Gulls' Way, his ears had still been ringing. He'd been helping himself to a midnight snack in the kitchen when Hardcastle had come in to ask how the night had gone. McCormick had begun to energetically extol the talents and creativity of Roland Orzabal and Curt Smith. It wasn't until he'd seen the judge wincing and scowling that he'd realized how loud he'd been talking, and that the ringing in his ears had affected his hearing a little, as well.

But that time, the tinnitus had already been pretty subdued when he'd gotten up the next morning. And by lunchtime, it had been mostly gone.

Mark didn't think he'd be that lucky this time.

He was concentrating on the cicada-like sound so intently that he didn't hear the first sneakered footsteps into his room. The abrupt jarring and scraping sound of the chair, occurring simultaneously with a crossly whispered "Shoot!" was a little hard to ignore. Mark opened his eyes and looked to his right.

Olivia was there, partially bent over, massaging her foot. Apparently her stealthy entrance had been hampered by a stubbed toe. She lifted her head, and seeing his open eyes, suddenly looked apologetic. "I didn't mean to wake you up," she said.

He smiled at her, feeling himself relax. "I wasn't asleep. Just thinking." He pressed the buttons on the bedrail, raising the bed into a sitting position, and then looked at his daughter with a kind of amused awe.

 _His **daughter**. _

"Uh, hi, again," he said, still smiling.

She didn't respond, only sat on the edge of the chair, appearing nervous. She started to twist a strand of hair around her finger, and then pulled her hand away with a slightly embarrassed expression.

"Are you feeling better?" Olivia paused, then added haltingly, "You look a lot better."

Mark's smile turned into a half-grin. "Well, I guess that's one area where you're not like me. You're not a great liar."

"And you are?"

The smile faded. Mark sighed. "I was. I don't lie as much anymore. At least, not about things that are important."

 _Are you sure about that?_ He'd lied by omission to Teddy. He'd lied to Marty when he gave her the impression his doctor had cleared him to fly cross-country. And he'd kept the truth of just how ill he felt from nearly everyone, including Hardcastle. Although the person he'd hurt most with that deception had been himself.

If Olivia noticed his inner turmoil, she didn't comment on it. Instead, she said, "I don't really lie. I don't think Grandma would stand for it."

"Yeah, and she's the shining example of honesty."

McCormick had bit out the angry words without thinking. Olivia sat back a little in her chair, startled. "Sorry," he muttered, looking away.

"You know, she helped you yesterday. Bringing you here, and staying with you."

"I know. I'm sorry," he repeated. He turned back to see that Olivia was looking down, frowning. When she lifted her head, her eyes held his.

"I just don't know if she did it because she was worried about you, or if she felt guilty. About keeping us apart."

Mark felt a wave of gratefulness at the indirect admission. He was reminded of how Olivia had sat next to him on the bed the day before, how it had felt like she was joining forces with him in his fight against Sandra's misguided choices.

The mention of Sandra prompted McCormick to look closer at the girl. "Hey, you're not here alone, are you?"

"No. . . My mom's here."

"Where?"

Olivia hesitated. "In the cafeteria."

"She let you come up here by yourself?"

"I said I was going to the bathroom." A guilty look came over the girl's face.

"So, you lied."

McCormick watched with a grin as his daughter's expression of guilt morphed into one of pure disgust. _"Shoot!_ " Olivia lamented. Then she extended her arm, holding out a closed fist. "I just wanted to bring you this, is all." She opened her hand so he could see the St. Jude medal, and the coiled chain, resting in her palm.

Mark was momentarily speechless. When he found his voice, he still couldn't make a coherent statement. "Where – How did you – I don't – " He reached for the medallion, grasping it tightly. "Thank you," he said quietly.

"You're welcome."

Mark attempted to put the chain on without getting it tangled in the IV line. Olivia stood to help him, slipping the chain on over his head. Then she backed up awkwardly, as if the contact had been a little too personal. Mark saw the reaction and felt he understood it – the day before, when he had gotten his first real glimpse of his daughter, a part of him had wanted to pull her into an emotional embrace. The other part of him, the wary, self-conscious part, had been afraid to even touch her.

"Why did you have this?" he asked, as he tucked the medal under the neckline of the hospital gown.

Olivia sat back down in the chair. "My grandma brought it home. You gave it to her."

McCormick stared at the girl blankly.

"You had to take it off for the x-ray. You don't remember?" Olivia gave Mark a worried look. "My mom has your watch, too. But your friend said this was more important."

"Wait. You met Hardcastle?"

She studied him with a furrowed brow. "You do that too? The last name thing?"

"Uh – "

"He was talking to my mom, in the cafeteria, and I don't know if he called you 'Mark' more than once. I thought you guys were friends or something." Olivia looked at Mark expectantly.

"We are friends," he confirmed. "It's. . . I don't know, habit?" Mark smiled, thinking. "We didn't start out as friends, and using the last names was a way of keeping our distance back then, I guess."

Olivia frowned, still seeming confused.

"I call him 'Milt' once in a while," McCormick went on, "but yeah, it's mostly 'Hardcastle,' or 'Judge.'"

Olivia shook her head. "Weird," she mumbled.

"So I take it I shouldn't start calling you 'Rivera'?" he teased.

"Not if you want me to answer." The grin that coincided with her words was the same one that he'd seen in her school photo – and he had a feeling it was the same grin that broke out on his own face at her response.

There was a knock on the door, followed by an orderly pushing an empty wheelchair. "Mr. McCormick?" the young man asked as he crossed the threshold. "I'm here to take you down for your ultrasound."

Olivia stood, moving aside. She watched quietly as the orderly helped Mark into the wheelchair, then hung the IV bag on a pole attached to the back of the chair. "How long is this going to take?" McCormick asked edgily.

"Most likely less than an hour," the orderly responded, "as long as they can get a clear picture. They might need to push your fluids." He indicated the IV.

"Yeah, have fun with that," Olivia murmured. Mark shot her a questioning glance, and she shrugged, smiling sympathetically.

The orderly pushed the wheelchair from the room, and then headed toward the elevators. Olivia trailed behind, not sure if she should follow, head back down to the cafeteria, or sit in the waiting room until Mark returned. She was still unresolved when she heard the elevator ding, and saw the orderly begin to move Mark's chair forward.

"Wait!"

The orderly paused, and Olivia moved quickly around to the front of the chair. Bending down, she threw her arms around Mark in an impulsive embrace. After a moment of shock, Mark returned the hug. And that was how Milt and Martina found them when they exited the adjacent elevator.

* * *

Once Martina and Hardcastle were reassured that nothing unusual had happened and that McCormick was just heading to his scheduled ultrasound, the orderly was finally able to get Mark into the elevator without any more delays. As the elevator doors closed, Olivia turned away and hurried to the waiting room, not looking back.

"I swear, that girl is going to run roughshod over me," Martina said. "First I felt guilty disciplining her because she was sick. And now, when she's feeling better, she pulls that disappearing act. . . That's not like her. All of this must be upsetting her more than I realized." She shook her head. "I don't want to get her even more stressed out. How am I supposed to yell at her now?"

"I don't know," Milt said, gazing in the direction Olivia had gone. "You're right – this situation probably has her mixed up and on edge. So it might be a good idea to get her side of the story, first, instead of just yelling at her." He looked back at Martina. "'Course, she's your kid. You do what you want."

A brief smile crossed Martina's face. "She's entitled to a defense, is that what you're saying, Judge?"

Hardcastle smiled back, cocking his head in a silent affirmative.

"Well, I need a minute. I'm still too shook up, myself." Martina sighed. "I'm going to call my mother. She wanted to know how Mark was doing." She looked around the hallway, then back at Milt. "Could you keep an eye on her for me?"

ooOoo

When Hardcastle entered the waiting room, he saw Olivia in the farthest chair in the corner, sitting with her legs curled under her. She was staring sullenly out the window.

"Is it okay if I sit here?"

The girl looked up. She shrugged, so he took the chair near her. They sat in awkward silence for a few minutes.

Hardcastle spoke first. "Your mom's a little worried about you," he said, hoping to coax the girl into talking.

"What else is new?" Olivia kept her voice pitched low, looking at the few other occupants in the room. "But I don't know why. I'm not the one in the hospital bed this time."

"Well, I think she was worried about how you took off on us. Even though we had a pretty good idea where you went, she wasn't too thrilled that you felt like you had to lie."

"I just wanted to talk to him alone," Olivia said dejectedly. "I wanted to ask him. . . Well, I didn't get a chance to, 'cause the guy came to get him, but I wanted to know what happened. I mean, with him and my mom and my grandma." She unfolded her legs, sitting up. "Mark really doesn't like my grandma."

Hardcastle hmmphed. "Yeah, I know."

"You know, too? So I'm the only one who doesn't?" The girl glared at him. "Why? What happened?"

Milt shook his head. "I don't know if I'm the one to tell you, kid. I'm the only one in this arrangement who isn't related to you."

Olivia sat back in her chair, folding her arms in front of her chest. "If somebody doesn't tell me something soon, I'm gonna get really hard to live with."

Hardcastle shook his head again, but this time the gesture included a grin. Olivia sighed noisily. "Why are you always laughing at me?" she demanded. A few of the other people in the waiting room turned curiously at her increased voice.

Milt stood, then motioned at the girl. "You want to know what's going on? Let's go talk in your dad's room. Less witnesses."

Olivia scrabbled up out of her chair so quickly she almost beat the judge out of the waiting room.

ooOoo

Hardcastle looked at his still-incorrect watch, and then at the girl sitting perched on the foot of the hospital bed. "We don't have a lot of time. It might be easier if you tell me what you already know, and what you want to know."

Olivia toyed with the sheets on the bed, not meeting Milt's gaze. "You and my dad are friends, right?"

"Yeah, we are."

"And my mom and dad are friends – they're not together, but they like each other." Olivia raised her head. "I just don't know why Mark and my grandma are so mad at each other. Well, my dad was mad. My grandma was more annoyed. Like Mark being here was . . ." She tried to think of the right word. "Inconvenient. Because she didn't want him in my life. And I don't get that, either. Why she kept us apart, but now all of a sudden it's okay for me to know him."

"I think that's something you'll have to talk to your mother and grandmother about." Milt shifted in the chair, looking toward the doorway. "But I can give you an idea of why your grandmother isn't exactly McCormick's biggest supporter."

" _Mark._ Why is it so hard to call him that?" Olivia asked. "It's his name."

Hardcastle leaned back in the chair, smiling genially at the serious look on Olivia's face. "McCormick's his name, too." When Olivia's expression grew more severe, he conceded. "Okay, fine. _Mark_. Do you know how your mom and Mark first met?"

When Olivia shook her head, the judge continued. "It was at a hospital. Your mom was working there for the summer, I guess she was a candy striper."

"Why was Mark there? Was he sick?"

"No. His mother was."

"Oh." Olivia frowned. "Did she get better?"

Hardcastle sighed, wondering how detailed to get. "No," he answered. "She passed away."

"Oh." The girl's shoulders slumped, and she looked uncomfortable, as if she'd suddenly realized the past contained things she didn't want to hear.

"You want me to keep going?" Milt asked.

Olivia nodded earnestly.

"Your mom and dad were pretty young, and I guess your grandmother wasn't happy with how much time they were spending together. She thought Mc– Mark was a bad influence on your mother. He wasn't exactly a straight arrow – he had some bad breaks, and didn't make the best choices. So when your grandmother had the opportunity, she did whatever she could to keep them apart. Including interfering when your mom tried to tell your dad she was pregnant." Milt knew he was condensing the story quite a bit, but at this point it was a race between who would interrupt them first: Mark returning from his ultrasound, or Martina searching for her daughter.

"What could he have done that was so wrong, that my grandma didn't want him around my mom?"

Milt grimaced slightly. "Maybe you should talk to your dad about that."

Olivia's eyes widened. "He said something yesterday about being arrested. He was in jail, right? That's what you were talking to my mom about."

"You were listening. I thought you weren't paying attention." Hardcastle studied the girl.

"I didn't understand everything, but yeah, I heard. What did he get arrested for?"

Milt sighed again. "He had a tendency to take things that didn't belong to him. Mostly things on four wheels."

" _Judge_."

Hardcastle felt his stomach drop at the livid tone. He turned to see McCormick, sitting in the wheelchair in the doorway of the room. The expression on the young man's face was a mixture of disbelief and betrayal.


	19. Chapter 19

_**Inheritance Tax**_ **by InitialLuv**

 **Chapter Nineteen**

Hardcastle rose from the chair to face McCormick. "That was quick, huh?"

"Yeah – sorry to interrupt," Mark answered with cold sarcasm. He grabbed the wheels of the chair and eased himself forward. The orderly who had brought Mark back to the room reached tentatively for the handles of the chair. "Mr. McCormick? Do you need me – "

Mark turned in the chair. "I'm fine!" he snapped. "If I need help I'll use the call button."

The orderly quickly took his leave, apparently unwilling to enter the fray. After he had left, McCormick looked back at the judge.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?"

"She had questions. I was trying to answer them," Hardcastle responded calmly.

"You don't have any right to do that!" Mark wheeled the chair up closer to Hardcastle. "That's not your business. She's my kid, and if she has questions she can ask me!"

Olivia was standing now as well. "But I couldn't get anyone to give me any answers," she complained.

Mark glanced at her. "Maybe that's because there's some things you don't need to know!"

Olivia recoiled as if she'd been slapped. For a moment she stared at the man who had yelled the cruel words so carelessly. Then the tears began to fall. Wiping a hand across her eyes, Olivia strode rapidly from the room, brushing past the wheelchair without looking at her father.

Hardcastle sighed, rubbing his temple. "Nice going, McCormick."

"Get out of here, Judge. Leave me alone."

Milt looked at the man in the wheelchair. "Are you okay?" he asked quietly.

Mark ignored the question. "Just go." When Milt still hesitated, McCormick raised his voice. " _Go_!"

"Fine." Hardcastle moved to the doorway, but stopped just before exiting and turned back. "But we're gonna hash this out, once you calm down." Then he left, closing the door behind him.

ooOoo

Martina had been walking down the hall toward Mark's room when she saw her daughter burst into the hallway, her face blotchy and distressed.

"Olivia?"

Olivia ran to Martina, letting her mother gather her into her arms. "Olivia? What happened?!" The girl didn't respond, only sniffling loudly. "Is Mark all right?" Martina asked fearfully.

"He's fine." Hardcastle had stepped up to join them. "He and I had a disagreement. The kid got caught in the crossfire."

Olivia pulled back from her mother, wiping her eyes again. "I want to go home. Can we go home?"

Martina looked at the girl in wonder. "What, already? I haven't even seen Mark yet."

"I don't want to stay." Olivia hugged herself, rubbing her arms. "I want to go home."

Martina turned to Milt. "What in the world happened?"

Hardcastle glanced back at the entrance to Mark's room, then made a waving gesture, moving the trio further down the hallway.

"I was explaining some things to Olivia, and McCormick overheard." Milt shot a guilty look at Olivia, but she was too focused on leaving the hospital to notice the use of the surname.

"Explaining what?"

Milt gave a vague shrug. "Basically the same things you and I talked about downstairs, with a little background."

" _Mom_." Olivia tugged at her mother's arm.

"Just a minute." Martina placed her arm around her daughter's shoulders. "Milt, what are you going to do? Do you have a place to stay?"

"Yeah, I got a hotel room, but I think I might stick around here for now." Hardcastle jerked his head back toward McCormick's room. "I want to know what's going on with him, and when he might get out of here."

Martina lifted her arm from Olivia's shoulders so she could delve into her purse. "Well, here, take his things to him." She handed Mark's watch to Hardcastle, but then suddenly looked troubled. "Oh, no. When my purse fell. . . I don't see his medallion."

"Um. . . He has it already."

Both the judge and Martina regarded Olivia quietly. She glanced aside, not wanting to meet either pair of eyes. "I gave it to him," she admitted.

Martina stared. "You took it out of my purse," she said angrily.

"It _fell_ out of your purse. I just didn't put it back in."

Hardcastle coughed back a laugh. "I was hoping it would be a little diluted before it got to her. That's three generations of light fingers, now."

Martina looked at the judge in confusion; Olivia's expression was more one of curiosity. Milt instantly regretted the flippant comment. "Never mind," he said quickly. "I've got the kid mad enough at me already. I don't need to add to it."

Martina nodded doubtfully. She put an arm around her daughter's shoulders again, guiding her to the elevators.

Milt waved goodbye. Before stepping into the elevator, Olivia gave a shy wave back.

ooOoo

After the elevator doors closed, Hardcastle turned to head back to McCormick's room. He walked the short distance slowly, frowning thoughtfully at the floor. Upon reaching the room, he stared at the closed door for a few moments. When he knocked, it was light and tentative.

"Yeah."

The judge pushed the door open. "It's me."

"I know." Mark was still in the wheelchair, but he had situated it next to the bed. He looked hopefully at Hardcastle now. "Can you help me with this?" he indicated the IV bag, still hanging from the pole on the wheelchair.

While Hardcastle held the IV bag, Mark eased himself out of the chair and into the bed. The judge rehung the IV bag on the wheeled pole next to the bed, and then watched as McCormick tried to settle into a comfortable position.

Mark sighed, leaning back. "I can't wait until they take this thing out. It's like a damn leash."

"You haven't even had it in that long – and for most of that, you've been asleep."

McCormick glared at Hardcastle, but the dirty look was short-lived. It was replaced with a noticeable wince.

"You okay?"

Mark grimaced wearily. "I feel lousy," he said. Then, "Especially after how I acted."

Hardcastle nodded, silent. McCormick looked over in surprise. "You don't have anything to say about that?" he asked.

Milt made a face similar to Mark's earlier grimace. "You gonna bite my head off again if I do?"

"I'm too tired for that." Mark closed his eyes briefly. "I might be able to work out a strongly-worded statement."

Hardcastle snorted, and Mark managed a wan grin.

"I'm sorry I yelled before, Judge."

"That was nothing," Hardcastle scoffed. "We've had bigger yelling matches over the shopping list." The older man sat in the bedside chair, which was rapidly becoming a familiar seat. "I'll admit that this time it was mostly my fault," he said next.

The surprised look increased tenfold. "Wait. Did I hear that right? Superior Court Judge Milton C. Hardcastle is admitting he was wrong?"

"I've been wrong about a lot of things where you're concerned, hotshot – like letting you get away with talking to me like that."

McCormick recognized Hardcastle's remark was mostly made out of habit, and not necessarily to incite a new argument. He knew he was expected to return a wisecrack, but his fatigue prevented him from thinking up a rejoinder. What he said was, "You did catch me off guard, I guess. Or maybe I'm just too keyed up about everything." He sighed gloomily. "The look on Olivia's face when I yelled at her – I hate that I did that."

"She'll live. She was just being a little over-dramatic." The judge tried to downplay Oliva's reaction. "I'm sure it's not the first time she's gotten yelled at by a parent." Hardcastle saw Mark smile slightly at the reference. "Anyway, you're not perfect. You don't want her putting you up on a pedestal."

Mark's smile had disappeared. "I don't think there's much chance of that, after she knows the truth about my past – and I _will_ tell her. I know she needs to hear some of that stuff," he admitted, "but _I_ should be the one to decide how much she knows, and when."

"You know I wouldn't tell her any specific details," Hardcastle grumped. "You're right – it's not my business. But somebody had to tell her something, to keep her from going overboard. She's already making some not-great decisions."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Mark looked at the judge inquisitively.

Milt gestured at Mark's neck. "The medal. She lifted it from her mother's purse to bring it to you. Pulled a pretty clever stunt to get her hands on it, too."

McCormick's hand went up to touch the medallion. "But she didn't keep it – she brought it back to me. What's wrong with that?"

Hardcastle glared at his friend. "Want me to make a list? How about taking something that didn't belong to her? Lying to her mother and saying she was going the bathroom, but sneaking up here instead? Plus, Martina had already told her she didn't want her coming in here alone to see you."

Mark shook his head stubbornly, still not willing to agree that any serious misdeeds had occurred. Hardcastle huffed. "Listen, just because you feel guilty for yelling at her doesn't mean you should ignore that she did something wrong. I know you're new to this fatherhood thing, but you've gotta see she made some bad choices here."

"She's a kid, Judge. Kids do stupid things. It doesn't mean she's gonna grow up to be some big time jewelry thief."

"Yeah, and I bet your mom didn't expect your 'misbehaviors' to end up becoming felonies."

McCormick's face paled. He opened his mouth to respond, but all that came out was a short, stunned exhale.

Hardcastle lifted a hand to rub his forehead. His eyes were closed as he said, "I'm sorry, kiddo. I don't know where that came from."

When there was no answer, Milt lowered his hand, opening his eyes to look at McCormick. The younger man was staring straight ahead, shaking his head slowly.

"McCor—"

"I can't believe you said that," Mark interrupted. "How could you say that?" He still wouldn't face Hardcastle.

Milt took a deep breath. He took off his Yankees cap, rubbed a hand over his thin hair, and clenched the cap in his hands. He was profoundly aware of how tense he was, how alert, and wondered how long he'd felt like this. _When was the last time you got some decent sleep?_ Since Martina's arrival, just three short days ago, McCormick's life had been turned upside-down – and Hardcastle had been tasked with picking up the pieces. Milt was a little out of practice with this level of protection when it came to McCormick – this wasn't your everyday, run-of-the-mill 'parental' concern that he'd settled into the last few years. This was a lot deeper than that. And they still didn't have any definite diagnosis from anyone, probably wouldn't until someone came to talk to McCormick about his ultrasound results. Hardcastle was on tenterhooks waiting for that reveal. He could only imagine how it was for Mark.

"I don't know," Milt repeated now, "except that I'm tired and saying things without thinking. The only sleep I got last night was in a waiting room chair. And this whole situation–" he waved a hand around the room "–has got us both pretty uptight."

Mark lay back limply against his pillows. "Maybe we both need some sleep," he said dully.

Hardcastle rose, stretching his stiff back. He placed his cap back on his head, running his fingers over the brim nervously.

 _Why the hell am I nervous?_

 _Because what you said hurt the kid. You went too far._

"Well, I'm gonna go, then. I'm paying for a hotel room basically to let my bags sit in it; I might as well go get some sleep in a bed." He turned from the hospital bed, walking toward the door.

"Judge?"

Hardcastle paused in the doorway, looking back. Mark had lifted his head and was warily studying the older man.

"Where are you staying? What hotel? I mean, if someone here needs to get a hold of you." McCormick's words were uncertain. It wasn't completely apparent who he thought might want to reach the judge.

With a relieved sigh, Milt came back into the room. He reached into the drawer of the bedside table for the pad of paper he'd seen earlier while searching for Mark's missing possessions. Grabbing a nearby pen, he wrote down the hotel name and room number. Tearing off the piece of paper, he folded it once and then placed it under the phone on the table.

"I'll make sure the desk knows, too," he said reassuringly. Mark nodded wordlessly, and then let his head fall back onto his pillows. Hardcastle again moved to the door, and had his hand on the doorknob before he remembered the watch in his pocket. This time when he turned back from the doorway, it was to see that McCormick's eyes were closed.

Coming back to the bedside, Milt laid Mark's watch on the table next to the phone. He studied the sleeping man for a moment, shook his head wearily, and then retook his seat in the chair beside the bed.

* * *

It was past eleven when Martina returned to the hospital. Olivia had remained at home, under the watchful eye of a woman who said that her granddaughter, who had experienced too much stress and excitement, definitely needed some rest. Martina had agreed with her mother. None of them had slept well the night before, and Olivia had been up at the crack of dawn, dressed and ready to go to the hospital before seven. Martina had refused to leave until Olivia had eaten something, and the girl had been very literal in that regard, insisting that a piece of toast was "something." Martina herself had taken an extremely long time – in Olivia's opinion – to eat her cereal and an English muffin, delaying their departure until at least seven-thirty. At that point Olivia had moved past impatience and into the realm of bouncing off the walls. It was not surprising that the girl had crashed and burned at the hospital – Martina thought that even if Mark's outburst hadn't triggered the emotional breakdown, something else would have.

The door to Mark's room was not closed completely, yet Martina could hear little noise or activity coming from inside. She knocked on the door twice, then pushed it open enough to let herself in.

Both men were asleep. Mark was laying on his left side, curled slightly with his left arm almost hanging off the bed, his right arm cradling the pillows under his head. Milt was leaning back in the bedside chair, his feet outstretched and resting on the foot of the bed. The two were snoring in tandem.

Martina pulled up short, not sure what to do next. As she was standing near the open doorway, a dietary aide walked past with a meal cart. The lunch trays rattled as the cart rolled by. The noise was enough to disturb Hardcastle, who startled slightly. His feet slipped off the bed, and that was all it took to wake him completely.

Milt straightened in the chair, blinking a few times in Martina's direction. He cleared his throat. "Martina?"

"You're still here," she admonished softly.

Hardcastle looked at McCormick, who was still sleeping. "Yeah, we haven't heard anything yet. There was a nurse in here checking on him maybe an hour ago – he practically slept through it. His temperature's almost normal. He's supposed to try and eat some lunch – he didn't even touch his breakfast." Hardcastle rose and stretched. "'Course, he fell asleep about five minutes after they brought it."

Martina nodded. "It's the same way with Olivia. The infections just wipe her out. Even if she would be well enough to be home, she'd still be down for the count for a day or two. There were times we had to wake her up to make sure she ate and took her pills."

"She come back with you?"

Martina looked at Mark for a quiet moment. "No. She stayed at home with my mother. I think it's better. She's just a little high-strung right now."

Hardcastle huffed a short laugh. "Yeah, she's not the only one." He stretched again, then moved toward the door. "I need to stretch my legs. Maybe I can find out where McCormick's doctor is. I think his name is Lorenzo."

After Milt left the room, Martina crossed over to the bed. For a moment she just looked at Mark, gazing at the pale face and the stubbled chin. Then she reached out to brush her hand lightly over the curls on his forehead. Her hand was still resting on his face when his eyes opened.

"Hi." Her voice was barely above a whisper.

"Hey." Mark changed position in the bed, bringing his left arm off the edge. "Damn. Pins and needles." He reached over to rub it with his right hand, and looked around the room distractedly. "What time is it?"

"About eleven-thirty."

"Did Hardcastle finally go to the hotel?"

"No, he was here. He just went to see if he could find your doctor." Martina sat down. "How are you feeling?"

"Not that bad, but I can't stay awake. I don't know why I'm so tired," Mark sighed.

Martina smiled. "Do you think it could have anything to do with the fact that you're sick?" she teased gently. McCormick made a face, but didn't argue the point. Changing the subject, he looked at Martina curiously. "Uh, are you alone?"

She nodded. "I took Olivia home. She needed to settle down. This has all been a little nerve-wracking for her."

Mark leaned back with a regretful frown. "Yeah, I'm sure what I said didn't help."

"We talked about that on the ride home. I reminded her how irritable she gets when _she's_ sick – she's not fun to be around." Martina was still smiling. "Not to mention you're still a rookie in the father department."

"Rookie?"

"I just wanted her to understand that you're not going to be this perfect ideal she's imagined. You're human."

"And not perfect – you got that right. Hardcastle told me the same thing." Mark shook his head with a wry grin. He pushed back the bed covers, slowly moving himself until he was sitting on the left edge of the bed. "I gotta empty the tank." He grabbed the IV pole with a disgusted look. "Another reason why I hate these things."

"'Empty the tank.' Why am I not surprised you used a car reference?" Martina smirked as Mark walked to the bathroom, accompanied by his "leash."

When McCormick returned from the bathroom he found his lunch had been delivered, and was sitting on the tray table. Martina was arranging the items on the lunch tray with a look of concentration. Mark dragged the IV pole back to the bed, and saw that Martina had straightened the covers, and had raised the head of the bed into a sitting position. He looked at her suspiciously as he sat down on the bed. "What's all this? You think if you make everything look more appealing I'll actually eat the crap they pass off as food?"

"If you want to get out of here you'd better eat something." Hardcastle had entered the room. He watched McCormick's expression now as Martina lifted the lid from the plate, divulging the food: skinless chicken breast, steamed cauliflower, sliced cantaloupe, and cottage cheese.

"Look at this," Mark said. "An all 'C' meal. Where's the carrot cake?"

"Or the creamed corn," Milt added.

"Corned beef?"

"Collard greens."

Mark was grinning now, as the joking about food had temporarily replaced the thought of actually eating. "Clam chowder."

"Chitlins." Hardcastle's grin matched McCormick's.

"Cheesesteak!"

Martina broke in, attempting to thwart the distraction so that Mark would eat. "Milk doesn't start with 'C,'" she stated, pushing the plastic mug toward Mark with a pointed expression.

Mark obligingly took a drink from the mug. He hadn't quite swallowed when Hardcastle murmured, "Calcium."

McCormick almost choked on the milk.

ooOoo

Mark had been reluctantly sampling his meal for several minutes when there was a knock on the door. A middle-aged man with dark hair entered the room, carrying a medical chart. "I had a feeling I'd find you awake at lunchtime," he said. Coming to the side of the bed, he held out his hand to Mark. "Mr. McCormick? I'm Dr. Lorenzo."

McCormick shook the doctor's hand, looking briefly at the name on the lab coat: "M. Lorenzo." _Martin? Mario? Marshall?_ Mark remembered Charlie's story of the nurse, Tabby Katt, and had to bite back a nervous grin.

The doctor introduced himself to Martina and Hardcastle, and then turned back to Mark. "I spoke with your admitting doctor about your case when I came on shift this morning. That was Dr. Tierney, although he said he wasn't sure if you would remember him. He said you were somewhat disoriented when you were admitted last evening."

McCormick shrugged awkwardly. "Uh, I remember the emergency room doctor. And I'm sure he remembers me – I was a little uncooperative."

Lorenzo smiled. "Patients that need the emergency department are rarely at their best. I wouldn't worry about it." He looked down the chart. "I see your fever is down. How is your pain right now?"

Mark shrugged again. "Not too bad. But when the stone moves all bets are off."

Lorenzo nodded. "And this morning's ultrasound shows it has moved, from the position it was in when you had your x-ray. I believe it is small enough to pass on its own – as long as we continue with the fluids." The doctor motioned at the IV. "Ideally, I'd like it to pass while you're still here."

The doctor looked again at the other two occupants of the room. "There was something else I would like to discuss with you about your ultrasound results," he said. "Can I speak freely, or would you rather your visitors give us some privacy?"

McCormick saw Hardcastle frown at the suggestion of leaving. "No, it's fine." Mark answered, dismissing the idea of a private conversation. He tried to sound casual and self-assured, but he could feel his heart practically hammering in his chest. "What about the ultrasound results?" he asked, hoping his voice wasn't shaking too much. The few bites of lunch he'd managed to take threatened to make an unwelcome reappearance.

Martina stepped closer to Mark, resting her hand on his. He clenched her hand gratefully, but kept his eyes on the doctor.

Lorenzo looked back down at the chart, and then raised his head to regard Mark seriously.

"Mr. McCormick, have you ever heard of polycystic kidney disease?"

There was a moment of silence. And then Mark began to laugh.


	20. Chapter 20

_Sorry, slightly shorter chapter. I wanted to get it posted before traveling for the holiday. Happy Independence Day!_

 **-ck**

* * *

 _ **Inheritance Tax**_ **by InitialLuv**

 **Chapter Twenty**

Even when Mark's laughing subsided, Lorenzo was still mildly concerned. Amusement was not a typical response from a patient who had just been told he had a chronic kidney disease.

After McCormick had turned serious, though, he seemed unable to make sense of his reaction, or even to form a lucid statement. Martina and Hardcastle were assigned the task of discussing the particulars with the doctor – the two took turns, telling their respective accounts of the last few days. Milt shared the gist of Mark's appointment with Charlie, allowing that Charlie's gut feeling had been that PKD was a good possibility. Martina spoke of Mark's recent frequent bruises, and of the family connection. That final detail caused the doctor's expression to change from concerned to curious.

"His daughter is a patient here?" Dr. Lorenzo raised his eyebrows in surprise. "I don't get to Pediatrics often, but I don't recall recently seeing another patient named McCormick."

"She's been out of the hospital a little over a week. . . Her name is Rivera. Olivia Rivera? She's our daughter." Martina touched Mark's shoulder. "She was diagnosed with PKD last month."

"And his mother had polycystic kidney disease as well?"

"Who knows?" Mark said vaguely. He closed his eyes and then reopened them slowly. They were somewhat glassy and unfocused.

Lorenzo looked thoughtful. "So my news wasn't exactly a surprise. Just more of a confirmation."

"You could say that." Hardcastle was watching McCormick closely, not liking the disconnected look on the young man's face. "Although we were hoping for a better diagnosis."

Dr. Lorenzo gave a brief nod. "Even so, polycystic kidney disease _is_ manageable." He addressed Mark. "Living with the disease will be an adjustment – you will need to make appropriate lifestyle changes, and medication is often necessary." The doctor seemed to also notice Mark's distracted state, and decided that was enough information for now. "But these are issues you will need to discuss further with the nephrologist. I've referred your case to Dr. Shire."

"He's Olivia's doctor," Martina said. At roughly the same time, Mark said, "That's stupid. I already have a doctor. His name's. . . Wesson."

Milt frowned, then shared an uneasy look with Martina. "Wesson's in California, sport. We're a little far from there right now."

McCormick shook his head. "Charlie already made the appointment. Why should I see someone new? It doesn't make sense."

"You're not making a lot of sense right now, kiddo. You missed that appointment, remember?" Hardcastle's frown deepened.

Mark leaned back against his pillow. "I don't want to see another doctor. I don't . . . I need time to think. I can't talk to someone else about this right now. I just need some time." The resolute words were spoken in a harsh, agitated voice.

"That's understandable, Mr. McCormick," Lorenzo said kindly. "I'll let the three of you have some time alone. You can let me know when you're ready for Dr. Shire to stop in." The doctor moved to the doorway, and Hardcastle reluctantly left the bedside to see him out. "Thanks, Doctor," Milt said, extending a hand. "We'll talk to him, try and get him settled down."

Lorenzo shook his hand, smiling sadly. "I am sorry for the unfortunate diagnosis. But I'm glad that Mr. McCormick has family here to help him through this."

Hardcastle glossed over the allusion to family – _But who else would you follow cross-country at the drop of a hat, if not family_? – and instead said, "He'd probably rather you call him Mark. If he wasn't so off his game right now, he'd ask you that himself."

Dr. Lorenzo smiled again, and this time it was accompanied by a chuckle. "That's fine. And if he's more comfortable referring to me by _my_ first name, he can call me Marco."

ooOoo

When Milt turned from the doorway to go back to McCormick's bed, he saw that Mark and Martina were in an apparent quarrel. Wondering what could have happened in the brief amount of time he'd been speaking to the doctor, he made a point of clearing his throat loudly. "What's going on?" he asked next.

Martina looked away from Mark, and the judge was struck by the pained worry on her face. "Talk to him, Milt. Tell him he needs us here."

McCormick spoke before Hardcastle could. "I'm in a hospital, for God's sake! I don't need you two to hover over me every minute!" He looked at the judge pointedly. "I said, I need time!"

Hardcastle dropped his head, inhaling deeply. "Kiddo, you need to get a hold of yourself – "

Mark raised his hands to rake them through his hair. He ignored the pull of the IV on his left arm. "Judge, you have no idea what I'm going through right now."

"Oh, I don't, do I?" Hardcastle shot back.

McCormick acknowledged the reference, but with more disgust than compassion. "Hell, you didn't even feel sick. Because you weren't. This is _real_ ," he said, gesturing at himself. "And I don't care if it pisses you off, but I want to be alone. _Now_."

Martina reached for Mark's hand. "Mark, please –"

Mark pulled his hand away, jamming it under the bedsheet. He purposefully shifted on the bed to look blankly in the opposite direction. His face had hardened into a glare that Hardcastle recognized as impenetrable. The older man sighed, and then turned to Martina.

"Let's go. Leave him be."

"But Milt, he has to –"

Hardcastle shook his head tightly. "Later," he murmured. As Martina slowly moved away from Mark, Hardcastle spoke a little louder. "I'm heading to the hotel."

There was no movement or sound from the man in the bed, to alert whether he had heard, or even cared, about the judge's location. "Okay," Milt muttered. He took Martina by the elbow, and escorted her out into the hall.

Once the two were out of the room, yet possibly not out of earshot, Martina rounded on the judge. "How could you leave him alone like that, after getting that news? What kind of a friend does that?"

Hardcastle walked a few paces away from Mark's room before turning to answer. "I'm a close enough friend to know when he needs some space. If we push him too much right now he's just gonna completely shut off, and how do you think we're supposed to help him then?"

"You act like I don't know him, like I don't know how he can get." Martina's tone was defensive. "He was like this when his mother was sick. But when she died he came to me, he needed me. He needs someone now!"

Milt looked at Martina with mild annoyance. "Yeah, he told me what happened back then. First he clobbered someone. Then he wandered around for hours before he came to you. Because he _needed space_. Listen, I'm not telling you to go home – just leave him alone for a while."

Martina seemed to sag a little. The fight went out of her, replaced with desperation. "I _can't_ just leave him alone. I know how scared I was when I got this news about Olivia – I'm still scared. It's only been a few weeks since we found out, and I still don't have my head around it all yet. I see her now, I see how she's feeling better, and I can almost forget. And then I do remember, and it scares me so much I can hardly breathe. He's got to be terrified."

"I think you're right," Milt agreed, "but I don't think either of us is going to get him to admit that he's scared, though."

Martina sighed, acknowledging defeat. "No, he wouldn't even admit that he was sick. My mother might not have even gotten him here if it wasn't –"

She stopped suddenly, and an expression of hope lit her face. Hardcastle narrowed his eyes. "What?" he asked warily.

"Mark might be shutting us out right now, but I think I know who might be able to get through to him." Martina was now all business. "You go to the hotel, get some rest," she directed to the judge. "I have a phone call to make."

* * *

Sandra Rivera replaced the phone on the base, stood quietly for a few moments, and then walked down the hall to her granddaughter's room. Knocking on the door was ineffective, as the loud music that was emanating from inside drowned out her continual raps. With an impatient sigh, Sandra turned the knob and let herself into the room.

Olivia was lying on her stomach on her bed, with a pillow scrunched up under her chin and her shoes kicked off onto the floor. The stereo was set to the compact disc component, and from the open case on top of the armoire, Sandra deduced that the offending noise she was hearing was Pink Floyd's _The Wall._ With not even a little guilt, she hit the power button on the stereo to cease the music.

Olivia immediately rolled over on her bed. She opened her mouth to shoot off a smart comment, something along the lines of "I was listening to that," and then she saw the expression on her grandmother's face.

Olivia rose to a sitting position. "What is it? What's wrong? Is it Mark?"

Sandra sat on the bed. "Your mother called. Mark got his ultrasound results. They showed he has PKD."

The girl's brow furrowed in confusion. "But I thought he already knew that. That's why he was having the ultrasound, right?"

"No, I believe the ultrasound was more to check on the kidney stone. They wanted to see it more in detail – see better what size it was, and if it had moved." Sandra paused, trying to recall Martina's words. "Mark knew PKD was a possibility, but that was as far as he would accept. Now that he's gotten the results, he's not doing very well."

"What does that mean?" Olivia asked, her voice pitching upward. "Is he worse?"

Sandra shook her head, reaching out to steady her granddaughter. "No, Olivia, I shouldn't have said it like that. I meant he's not _dealing_ with it very well. Your mother said he's refusing to speak to her or to his friend, and basically kicked them out of his room."

Olivia sat silently, looking at the floor under her stocking feet. It had only been a few weeks since her pediatrician had entered her room with another unknown doctor, a "specialist" who had spoken solemnly to the three of them about her own ultrasound results. It wasn't hard to remember how lost she had felt, how scared and alone, even with her mother and her grandmother by her side.

But she wouldn't have asked them to leave for the world. Although there was nothing either of them could do to make the illness go away, just having them there, having their love and support, had made her feel calmer, more balanced. Not necessarily optimistic, but also not hopeless.

"Why won't he talk to anyone?" Olivia asked now. "They just want to help him."

"Your mother thinks he's acting this way because he's scared." _And maybe a little dramatic._

Olivia looked puzzled. "But he's an adult. Why would he be scared?"

Sandra sighed deeply. "Oh, Olivia, there's no age limit on being afraid."

"You sound like Evelyn." Since Olivia's diagnosis, she had met with a therapist twice – once in the hospital, and then again just four days ago, the day before her mother had flown to California. Olivia had found it very easy to talk with Evelyn Silvers, and had shared things she couldn't say to her mother and her grandmother, things she knew would just make them more sad or worried. Sharing those fearful thoughts with someone who was impartial, and then being told that those thoughts were normal and healthy, had been a comforting release. "Maybe it would help Mark," Olivia said next, "if he could talk to someone like Evelyn."

Sandra looked at her granddaughter with a faint smile.

"Your mother thinks that's exactly what he needs – and she has a certain someone in mind."


	21. Chapter 21

_**Inheritance Tax**_ **by InitialLuv**

 **Chapter Twenty-One**

The insomnia was back.

Since he'd been admitted the night before, he'd been more asleep than awake. The tendency to doze off had been annoying, but at least if he was asleep, he wasn't aware of his life being hijacked. And now, after getting the news that he just wanted to forget, sleep wouldn't come. He was wide awake, staring up at the ceiling and trying not to give in to despair.

He wasn't sure how long it had been since the judge and Martina had left. He had heard Martina in the hall after they'd left the room, speaking loudly and angrily, presumably at Hardcastle. The words had been mostly clear. . . Something along the lines of her not wanting to leave him alone. He hadn't heard Hardcastle's reply, which had either been because the judge's voice had been softer (not likely) or because he had moved away down the hall (much more likely). Possibly a half hour after that, a dietary aide had come in to retrieve his mostly uneaten lunch. An annoyingly cheerful nurse came in next, and as she did a blood pressure and temperature check, she scolded him for not eating, practically wagging a finger in his face. She then replaced the bag for his IV, meanwhile chattering about how once the kidney stone had passed and the infection could be handled with an oral antibiotic, the IV could be removed. He'd mumbled his understanding and had promised he'd eat his supper, mainly just to humor her. But after she'd gone, the solitude and the silence of the room had crept up on him, and the tinnitus had kicked in seemingly out of nowhere.

He'd turned on the television and had flipped through the scant channel line-up about three times before giving up on finding anything entertaining. He'd tried sitting in the chair, standing up to stare out the window at his view (the parking lot), and had made another trip to the bathroom. On the way back, he'd half-heartedly explored the room. Other than the pleasant surprise of finding his watch on the table by the phone, the room had held nothing else to warrant his attention. He'd eventually ended up back in the bed. Now, with the ringing in his ears, the dread in the pit of his stomach, and the ever-present ache in his side and back, he wondered if he'd been a little hasty in giving his support system the bum's rush.

A soft knock on the door startled him. For a moment he wavered between being hopeful that Hardcastle or Martina had returned, and being angry that his request for privacy wasn't being respected. And then a young girl with curly hair poked her head in the door.

"Can I come in?"

Mark hesitated only a moment before answering. "Y-yeah." He watched as his daughter warily entered the room, to stand stiffly behind the chair.

"Hi."

"Hi," he returned. "You came back."

She rolled her eyes at the obvious statement. "My grandma brought me back."

He nodded quietly, swallowed, and then the words came spilling out. "Olivia, I'm so sorry I yelled at you. I didn't mean to make you upset."

She gave him a half-smile. "It's okay."

"No, no it's not," Mark said vehemently. "I wasn't even mad at – I mean, I didn't mean to yell at – "

"I understand," Olivia reassured him. "My mom explained it. Really, it's okay."

Mark quieted, but still looked guilt-ridden. Olivia came around to sit in the chair, and McCormick was able to see she was wearing two different colored high-tops – one blue and one yellow. Fairly certain she hadn't been wearing mismatched shoes earlier that morning, he peered at her feet, curious. Seeing the direction of his gaze, she quickly lifted one leg under her and sat upon it, hiding one offending shoe. He quirked his eyebrows at her.

"I did it on purpose," she defended.

"Good – I thought maybe you were color-blind."

Olivia exhaled impatiently. "It's a fashion statement."

"It's some kind of statement." Mark grinned, but it was weak and didn't last long. Olivia noticed the sudden change in mood, and was reminded of why she was there.

"My mom said you got your ultrasound results."

McCormick turned away with a sigh. "Great. They sent you in as the mouthpiece."

"The. . . what?"

"You're smart. Figure it out."

There was no response to his terse comment. Mark turned back to see Olivia staring at him impassively. He was pretty sure she had grasped the term.

The two of them looked at each other silently. Olivia broke the eye contact first, cutting her eyes to the side as she shook her head in irritation. "You're not making this easy."

"Making _what_ easy?" he grumbled.

She didn't answer directly. "You know, they just want to help. I want to help. I kinda know where you're at right now, feeling overwhelmed and scared –"

"I'm not scared."

Olivia gave him a dubious look. "Not _scared_ ," Mark repeated, "I'm. . . 'unsettled.'"

Olivia seemed to accept that as enough of an admission. "Well, I was pretty 'unsettled.' I've been seeing a therapist. It really helps to talk to someone, to be able to be honest and not have to worry about other people getting upset. I can tell her things I can't tell my mom or grandma. They wouldn't understand." The girl was quiet for a moment, then said in a soft voice, "You'd probably understand."

"Try me."

Olivia shifted in the chair, swapping legs so she was now sitting on the blue shoe, with the foot clad in the yellow Converse dangling. She started twirling a loose curl around her finger. Her next words were not what McCormick was expecting.

"You first," she directed.

Mark leaned back against the pillows, exhaling quietly. "There's nothing to tell," he said.

This time it wasn't just a dubious look, it was also a snort. "Okay, you don't want to talk to me, either, huh? I get it. Maybe it would be easier for you to talk to a therapist, too –"

"A shrink? I don't think so."

"A _therapist_. "

"Potato potahto." McCormick was again looking at the ceiling. He heard Olivia make a frustrated noise. She followed that with, "Boy, you're in a bad mood."

"I think I've got a right to be in a bad mood! You don't have to stay if you don't like it!"

Olivia sat back farther in the chair, her eyes wide.

 _I did it again. Yelled at her for no reason._ This time he was able to apologize immediately. "Oh, God, Olivia, I didn't mean that. I'm sorry. I keep taking this out on you." He smiled sheepishly. "Usually it's Hardcastle who gets the brunt of this."

Olivia nodded. "And what does he do when you yell at him?"

"Tells me to calm down and knock it off. Or yells back. It depends." McCormick studied the girl in the chair. "So, which one do you think I need right now? Your pick."

Olivia shifted in the chair again, pulling her leg out and placing both of her feet on the floor. She stood, faced her father, and began to vent.

"I think you're being stupid!" she began. "Everybody is worried about you, and wants to help you, and you push us all away! How is that supposed to help? You think if you don't talk about this, it'll go away? It won't! It'll never go away! You have to talk to the doctor, and listen to him, and do what he says! Because I just found you, and I'm not gonna lose you because you're too stubborn to take care of yourself!" Finished, she dropped down in the chair and crossed her arms in a determined pose. Then, as an afterthought, she added, "Oh – and knock it off and calm down."

Mark stared, speechless. It took a moment before he could gather himself, exhale, and respond.

"I'm scared."

She smiled gently. "I know. I am too."

Mark closed his eyes for a moment. "And I don't know what scares me more – what's gonna happen to me, or what could happen to you." He opened his eyes to look despondently at his daughter.

She shrugged. "It's kinda the same thing. I mean, we have the same thing, the same diagnosis. I'm feeling pretty okay right now. When you get out of here, and take your pills and follow the diet and stuff, you'll probably feel fine, too. Well, _better_ ," she amended.

"Yeah, but for how long? How long until the next infection, or kidney stone, or something? How long until – " He broke off, not sure how to phrase his fears. _And I'm just going by what I remember Marty saying a few days ago. What she said about the progression, the complications . . . Cysts in the liver, the pancreas. The possibility of a brain aneurysm –_

"I know," Olivia said again. "But just because those things could happen, doesn't mean they will."

Mark shook his head. "You don't deserve this," he said grimly. "Me, I get, but you're a kid. What could you have done to deserve this?"

Olivia moved to the edge of the chair, closer to the bed. "What do you mean? Do you think _you_ deserve this?" When Mark didn't answer, only looking away, she continued. "What, like some kind of punishment?"

"Penance." McCormick lifted his hand to his chest, to touch the medallion that rested there.

Olivia took a shaky breath. "What could you have done that was so bad that you think you deserve this?"

Mark lowered his hand, and looked wearily at his daughter. "When I yelled at you earlier – this morning – I didn't mean to yell, but I meant what I said. There are some things you don't need to know, not yet. Things your mother doesn't even know, at least I think she doesn't." _How much did that private eye find out, anyway? But no, Marty seemed like she didn't really know that much about Hardcastle, so she probably doesn't know about Weed Randall. Possibly. Hopefully._

An alarming thought occurred to McCormick – Sandra. She knew things about him that Martina didn't. _How?_ _ **Why**_ _?_

"Your grandmother's a wild card, though," he found himself continuing. "She's got some kind of an inside track on me. Don't ask me why." He scowled, then muttered, "I wouldn't be surprised if she had a running tally on how many times I didn't wash my hands after going to the bathroom."

Olivia leaned back, startled, and then began to laugh. McCormick realized it was the first time he'd heard her laugh, and he felt his heart swell.

"That was funny," Olivia said, still giggling. "You're kinda funny."

Mark grinned. "You should hear me when I really get started."

Olivia smiled back, and then looked thoughtful. "Kurt was funny, too."

Mark's grin faded. "Kurt. Who's Kurt?"

Olivia's face had also become sober. "Um, my mom's old boyfriend. He was a teacher, too. A French teacher at the middle school."

"A French teacher." Suddenly Martina's easy recollection of " _le mot juste"_ made more sense. "How long was he her boyfriend?"

"Um . . . about a year. I think."

 _A_ _ **year**_ _?_

"When was this?" He didn't know why this was bothering him so much. He and Kathy had dated seriously, and if she hadn't taken that job in Chicago, well, who knows where their relationship might've gone. And hadn't he just thought, a few days ago, that he didn't begrudge Martina moving on with her life as well?

 _That was before I knew we had a kid together._

Olivia was looking nervous, as if she had just understood why Mark had been unwilling to tell her certain things about his past. "They were still together until about last June, I guess. They were sort of serious, but then he left."

"He took off on her?" McCormick's tone was slightly hopeful.

"No." Olivia gave Mark a hard look. "He took a job in another district. At a high school. . . He said they had a bigger foreign language department, and he was also going to be an assistant football coach. After he left, Mom was really sad for a while." She shrugged, trying to appear nonchalant, but her delivery of the details made Mark feel like Olivia might've had as much invested in the man as Martina had.

Olivia went on, and confirmed his guess. "He was nice. All three of us did things together, went places. Sometimes people thought he was my dad, and that was nice, too. I didn't always tell them he wasn't." She looked up, her face flushed with guilt. "I thought you were dead, you know."

"Not my fault. That was your grandmother's doing."

"She liked Kurt."

"Now why does that not surprise me?" McCormick huffed. "Probably because he was nothing like me."

"No. . . " Olivia hedged. "He was actually kinda like you. I mean, he was funny, and nice, and he even looked a little like you." At Mark's bemused expression, she clarified, "He had curly hair. I think that's why some people thought he might have been my dad."

Mark didn't know how to respond to that, so he remained quiet, with a slightly grumpy look on his face. Olivia fell mute as well, and a tense silence settled. After a few moments, McCormick shook his head and then repositioned on the bed, moving over to the left side and sitting sideways. He patted the open space now on his right, and gestured at Olivia. "C'mere."

Olivia rose slowly, then perched on the edge of the bed. Mark looked at her fixedly. "Okay. Ask me one question. I'll try to answer the best I can."

It was only seconds before Olivia spoke. "How long are you staying? I mean, when you get out of here, how long will you stay in New York?"

"Oh. . . You don't pull any punches, do you?" Mark lifted his eyes up to the ceiling. When he looked back, Olivia was watching him expectantly. He sighed, suddenly tired.

"I don't know, kiddo. I'm just trying to get through the next couple of days. I guess it depends on what the doctors say – they probably won't want me flying back right away. It's a long trip." Mark realized that wasn't much of an answer, and he shrugged apologetically. "I gotta talk to your mom, and I guess your grandma, and figure out where I fit in all of this."

"You're my father. I'm your daughter. That's where you fit."

Mark smiled, and she mirrored the expression, although her face soon grew serious. "You know what would make me happy?" she asked.

"Matching shoes?"

Olivia tried to look indignant, but giggling soon took over. "Stop that!" she commanded, and McCormick obliged, miming zipping his lips. Olivia attempted to regain her earlier seriousness. "What would make me happy," she said again, "is if you could stay in New York until at least the nineteenth."

"What's today?" Mark looked at the dry erase board at the front of the room, where the on-duty nurses wrote their names and the date. "The tenth. Okay, yeah, I think I can swing staying until the nineteenth." He turned back to Olivia with an inquisitive look. "Why?"

"That's Father's Day."

He was rendered speechless again, and all he could do was grin.


	22. Chapter 22

_**Inheritance Tax**_ **by InitialLuv**

 **Chapter Twenty-Two**

After paying the cabbie who had dropped him off at the hotel, Hardcastle shoved his wallet back into his pocket and watched the taxi drive away. The judge frowned thoughtfully. He wondered if it might be better to rent a car from the agency at the airport. He couldn't be depending on cabs to take him back and forth from the hotel to the hospital and to wherever else he might need to go, especially if expediency was necessary. Granted, the night before he'd been at the mercy of cab drivers to get him through an unfamiliar city, and by some miracle he'd been delivered to a hotel only a few miles from his ultimate destination. But no matter how close the hotel and the hospital were, if McCormick was going to be in New York for a while, it made more sense for Milt to have his "own" vehicle.

 _And how long **will** the kid need to be here?_ Hardcastle knew that his friend's stay might be a prolonged one, considering how it could be for both medical and personal reasons.

Milt trudged up the staircase to his room, foregoing the elevator as he needed to work out the kinks from sitting too much. After letting himself into the room, he eyed the bed distractedly. He'd been up since six a.m. the day before, with only snatches of sleep here and there, both times in chairs. Yet he didn't feel like lying down. His mind was too alert, preoccupied with terminologies and prognoses. Consultations and time frames. Present and future.

Hardcastle slowly moved to the bed, sinking down to sit on the edge of it. He stared at the phone on the nearby table. He checked his watch – now turned ahead to Eastern Standard Time – and determined that it was not quite ten a.m. in Los Angeles. Whether he called Frank or Charlie first didn't matter; he knew both would have been at their offices for a couple hours now, at least. What delayed Milt from dialing either man was the question of what he needed – a friend to talk to, or someone who could offer insight about McCormick's diagnosis?

Hardcastle felt the first call should be to Dr. Friedman. It wasn't that the judge particularly mistrusted the doctors currently attending to McCormick, but he wasn't completely sure he'd be able find out from them exactly what was happening, or going to happen, to the kid. _And maybe that's because it's not really my business – he's a competent adult, and it's not like I'm related to him or something._ But Milt was used to full disclosure when it came to McCormick winding up in the hospital. Of course, the last time Mark's health had been in dire straits – when he'd been shot by Wendell Price – the kid had still been under parole and technically in his custody. That had lent more allowance to Hardcastle needing to know McCormick's specific medical issues.

Milt wasn't sure what to do with the news Dr. Lorenzo had delivered. McCormick had seemed to be doing a little better – at least, his mood had been slightly improved – but that had been before Lorenzo had arrived with the test results. Then the kid's demeanor had again plummeted. In any normal circumstance, Hardcastle recognized that Mark falling into a sullen, agitated temper would be immediately followed by the kid's swift departure to the gatehouse, or an even swifter departure in the Coyote: Mark's need of "space" and time to deal with his emotions. It was the main reason why Hardcastle had honored McCormick's appeal to be left alone, and had requested that Martina do the same. But the judge hadn't felt right about the decision from the moment he'd made it, and he'd been encouraged to hear that Martina was going to try to get Olivia to talk some sense into the kid. Milt shook his head with a wry smile – however long McCormick ended up staying in New York, he hoped the young man didn't protest Hardcastle remaining as well. Even though his interaction with McCormick's daughter had been brief, Milt had instantly found himself liking the girl. It had been a little surprising, the curious feeling of connection. Hardcastle definitely wanted to get to know her better.

Milt had dialed the number to Charlie's office by heart, but had to re-dial, momentarily forgetting that it was long-distance. The ringing phone was automatically transferred to a desk and picked up by a nurse, who informed Hardcastle that Dr. Friedman was in a patient consult and unavailable.

"Just have him call me back," Hardcastle said wearily. "Tell him Milt Hardcastle called. I don't think he's got my number here, let me – "

He was interrupted before he could read off the digits. _"Milt Hardcastle? Is that what you said?"_

"Yeah," the judge answered the nurse, puzzled.

" _Hold, please."_

It was less than five minutes before Charlie came on the line. "Milt, hello."

"I thought you were in a meeting or something."

"I have some time." Charlie didn't explain further, instead moving on to the most probable reason for the judge's phone call. "How is everything? How's Mark?"

Milt rubbed his temple, again somewhat confused. "Didn't the hospital here tell you anything when they called?" The night before, Milt himself had neglected to ask Charlie for any details regarding Mark's illness – after hearing the what and where concerning McCormick, he'd quickly ended that phone call with his friend so that each man could get to his respective destination.

"The most I was told was that Mark was in the emergency room and would soon be admitted," Charlie replied, "and I believe the only reason I was even contacted was because Mark had his prescription bottles with my name on them. It's the hospital's policy to not share anything specific, at least not unless the patient is incapacitated, and alone. But I was told that Mark had arrived with a 'family member.'" There was a inquisitive tone at the end of the sentence. "And I was also informed that Mark was relatively coherent – maybe a little uncooperative." The judge snorted, prompting a laugh from the doctor. Charlie continued. "The ER doctor did ask if Mark had any allergies or any other immediate health concerns that they needed to be aware of. "

"Did you tell them anything?"

Friedman paused, but the moment of silence was negligible. "Only what I felt was necessary."

Milt disregarded the minor hesitation. He wasn't concerned that Charlie had breached professionalism, and he was fairly sure McCormick wouldn't take offense. He also wasn't worried that McCormick would be upset with him if he briefed Charlie on the kid's current medical status.

 _Are you sure about that?_

Hardcastle brushed aside his inner trepidation, and forged ahead. "Okay – specifics. He's got a kidney infection and a kidney stone. The infection hit him really hard not long after he got here. He had a pretty high fever and I guess he was kind of out of it when he got admitted. There was someone else with him – I wouldn't exactly call her a 'family member,' though." Milt paused before adding, "I guess she's more of a relative of a relative. Anyway, she was gone when I got there."

"Has his fever broken?"

"Yeah, he was doing better by about four this morning. Still a low fever, but the doctors don't seem as worried as they were. He's been getting antibiotics and some pain meds, and he says he's really only in a lot of pain when the stone moves."

There was a soft noise from Charlie's end of the phone, a "Hmm." "What?" Hardcastle asked.

"I believe the kidney stone caused the infection. Most likely the stone was what was causing Mark's back pain, and was the reason for the blood in his urine. I just wish Mark would have stayed for the ultrasound appointment. If we had found the stone earlier, the infection might have been prevented – at the very least, it wouldn't have been as serious."

"Well, they did an ultrasound this morning, to check on the stone, and the doctor came to tell McCormick the results about an hour ago." Hardcastle heaved a sigh. "He told the kid he's got PKD."

There was another pause, and then Charlie said, "I'm sorry, Milt."

"Yeah." Milt sighed again. "Mark's having a hard time with it. He's supposed to be seeing a nephrologist out here, but he's practically refusing to talk to anyone – including me. He said he wanted some space, but I'm not sure that's the best thing for him right now. What do you think, Charlie?"

Hardcastle was surprised, and a little perturbed, to hear a light chuckle from the doctor. "What's so funny?" the judge grumbled.

"Milt," Charlie started, his voice now serious, "if there's anyone who knows what's best for Mark, it's you."

"I don't know about this time, Charlie. I need someone to help me fix this."

"'Fix it'?" Friedman repeated.

"I just need somebody to tell him he's going to be all right!" Hardcastle lowered his voice as he continued. "Can't you at least give me something to tell him? Or maybe you could call the hospital and talk to him. I don't think he trusts the doctors here."

"I'd be happy to speak to him as a friend, Milt. . . But I can't be his doctor from three thousand miles away." When Milt's only response to that was a tense huff, Charlie continued. "Why doesn't he trust the doctors there? Has he said anything specific?"

"Not exactly," Hardcastle admitted. "I know he had a tough time in the emergency room yesterday, but that was mostly because he was in a bad way. And he was probably harder on the doctors than they were on him. But I know we'd be a hell of a lot more comfortable if we were home, instead of in a strange hospital with doctors neither of us know."

"Do _you_ trust the doctors there?" Charlie asked.

Again there was little response from Hardcastle. "Milt?" Charlie prodded.

"It's not just the doctors. It's this whole damn thing." The judge cleared his throat, attempting to ward off the shaking he'd heard in his voice. "But I get what you're saying. If I want him to listen to the doctors, he's gotta see I trust them." Another rough half-cough. "I'm sorry for bugging you, Charlie. I know these guys are good out here. I guess I just needed to hear a familiar voice."

Charlie's reply was succinct, and heartfelt. "Anytime, Milt."

The judge and the doctor said their good-byes, and as Hardcastle cradled the receiver, he decided he was too tired to call Frank Harper. It wasn't so much the physical exhaustion as it was the mental – the phone conversation with Friedman had been more difficult than he had expected. Milt had hoped to be reassured, even falsely. . . What he hadn't counted on was a blunt verification of what he already knew – the predicament McCormick was in had no easy solution.

Hardcastle lay back on the bed, not bothering to remove his shoes. He took off his hat and crossed an arm over his eyes. He had drifted into a light doze when the ringing of the phone startled him awake.

"Huh?" he muttered into the receiver. "Whozit?"

 _"Judge? It's me."_

Milt sat up, rubbing his eyes. "What? McCormick?"

 _"Yeah."_ There was an obvious teasing tone in the younger man's voice. _"Did I wake you up? Sorry."_

Milt did his best to sound wide awake. "Nah, I was just resting. You all right?"

 _"Yeah. I feel a little more human, I guess. I got a talking-to."_

"You did? Who did that?"

Mark snorted a laugh. _"Like you don't know. That kid's almost as good as you at the 'Get McCormick to Realize He's Being a Jerk' speech."_

Hardcastle felt an overwhelming relief, not only at the fact that Olivia's talk had seemed to work, but also at hearing his friend laughing and joking. _Maybe he's actually gonna be okay._

McCormick was speaking again. _"So, anyway, I, uh talked to Lorenzo. I told him I wanted to meet Dr. Shire."_

"That's great, kiddo."

 _"Yeah. . . So, can you come back? I know you wanted to get some sleep, but I'd kinda like you here when I talk to Dr. Shire. I mean, well . . . You know."_ McCormick trailed off self-consciously.

"Of course I can come back," the judge blustered. "I just need to call a cab. I can be there in twenty minutes."

He made it in fifteen.


	23. Chapter 23

_**Inheritance Tax**_ **by InitialLuv**

 **Chapter Twenty-Three**

When Dr. Shire had exited Mark's room, Milt hadn't made any effort at courtesy, as he had earlier with Lorenzo. Hardcastle had moved away from where he'd been leaning against the heating register, but not to follow the doctor to the door – instead, the judge had come nearer to Mark's bed, to sit in the chair Dr. Shire had recently vacated. Once back in his familiar seat, Hardcastle was able to look more closely at his friend.

The younger man was sitting very quietly, staring straight ahead. His right hand grasped the papers that Dr. Shire had left, while his left hand tapped repeatedly on the bed. Other than that small, continuous movement, McCormick was unnaturally still.

"McCormick."

The hand stopped tapping. Mark looked up, startled. "What?"

Milt pulled the chair even nearer to the bed. "Are you okay?"

Mark shook his head slightly. "You heard the guy, Hardcastle. I'm pretty much not okay." He waved the papers clutched in his hand.

Milt took in a breath. "What I heard," he replied sternly, "is that you're in the early stages. 'Minor cystic formation,' the doc said. I also heard that you can slow down the progression by taking care of yourself, and maybe not doing anything stupid." Here the judge waved around the room, in a gesture that was meant to include the ill-advised plane trip that had eventually landed Mark in the hospital. "If you really listened to what Shire had to say, instead of just assuming the worst, you'd see that things aren't so hopeless after all."

"Says the guy who's not sick."

Hardcastle leaned closer to Mark. "I want you to tell me something, and think before you answer it. Don't just give me some wise-ass comment."

McCormick eyed the judge suspiciously. After a moment he silently nodded his assent.

"How do you feel right now? I don't mean mentally, I mean physically. Tell me the truth."

It was nearly a minute before Mark responded. He sank back against the pillows and closed his eyes. When he spoke, the words that came out were slow and careful.

"I – I don't feel. . . terrible. Tired. But I feel better than I've actually felt in a while." Mark opened his eyes, and the look on his face was annoyed bewilderment. "I don't get it. I mean, I was feeling crappy for a week or more before Marty even showed up, but I just ignored it. I thought it would pass. I'd figured it wasn't a big deal. You know, like you did." When Hardcastle shifted his eyes guiltily, McCormick was quick to continue. "I don't mean anything by that, Judge – it's just I think we both kind of decided it was nothing serious. Just stress from finals or a bug or something. Even when I noticed the bruises and I started feeling more sick, I still wrote it off." Mark's expression was rueful. "When Marty showed up and all of a sudden I was worse, I think it was almost – what's it called? Psycho – "

"Yeah, psycho is right," Hardcastle broke in, grinning.

"Shut up," Mark said, trying to restrain his own grin. "No, it means when you feel something physically because of how you feel mentally. Somatic! That's it – psychosomatic. I think when Marty threw all that news at me, and I didn't know how to handle it, or how to handle all the memories that came up . . . Then it was like I couldn't ignore how bad I'd been feeling. I didn't have the energy left to pretend I was okay." McCormick shrugged. "I don't know if that's right, if I'm describing it right." He paused again, shaking his head. "So how is it I find out I've got PKD, and I don't really feel that sick? I'm just confused." He looked despairingly at the informative paperwork Dr. Shire had left. "I can't really absorb this right now. I wish . . . You know, I think I would feel a lot better with Charlie handling this. Or even that Wesson guy – if Charlie recommended him, he'd have to be good, right?" McCormick gave the judge a hopeful look.

Hardcastle sat up a little straighter in the chair. "I think the docs here are . . . fine, McCormick," he said haltingly. "I mean, I like that guy Lorenzo – you talked to him again when I was gone, what did you think?"

"He was okay," Mark said. "I guess he was pretty encouraging when I told him I'd talk to Shire." A slight grin lit the man's face. "And he told me what the 'M' on his jacket was for. His first name's Marco. So he can't be all bad, right?"

"I guess the only thing better would be if the 'M' stood for Milt," Hardcastle teased.

"I don't know about Shire, though," McCormick continued, and now the grin had been replaced with a frown. "He just seems – removed. Like he thinks a few sheets of paper are enough to let me know what I'm in for."

The judge had gotten a similar impression of the man. Dr. Shire had finally entered Mark's room over an hour after Milt himself had arrived, and then had remained only fifteen minutes, which was roughly the amount of time it took to discuss the details of Mark's ultrasound. Granted, Shire had asked both Hardcastle and McCormick if they had any questions, and the kid had clammed up, which left Milt as the only one whose concerns could prolong the doctor's stay. But the question Hardcastle had really wanted to ask – would the kid's health decline to a point where dialysis or a kidney transplant might be necessary – wasn't something he could bring himself to speak aloud. So both men had silently shaken their heads, and it wasn't much longer before the doctor had excused himself, with a comment about needing to see another patient.

"Well, kiddo, he probably wanted to give you some time. He knows it's going to take you a while to process it all," Milt said. "The information in those papers is more general, anyway. Didn't you listen to anything the guy said?" The judge scowled in mild annoyance. "Anyone who has this PKD is going to handle it different. It depends on age, and if the person has any other health issues, and how they change things, like their diet. I think what that means is it's up to you how 'sick' you really are." The judge reached to take the papers from McCormick. "I bet the doc figured we'd need to go through these, and see what we have questions about, for the next time he sees you. Maybe we should make some notes. I suppose if you're gonna be stuck here until that stone passes, we'd better make some use of the time."

Mark stared at the judge guardedly, without speaking. Hardcastle held the look, raising his eyebrows.

"What are you getting at, Hardcase?"

"What? Whaddaya mean?" Milt replied innocently.

"All of a sudden you're a big supporter of these doctors. You told me you were ready to call rank on them when you first got here because they wouldn't tell you anything or let you in my room in the middle of the night. And now it's all, 'They know what's best, McCormick.'" Mark's voice had deepened to a Hardcastle-ish growl. "'Gotta do what the doctors say, McCormick.'"

"Is that such bad advice?"

Mark opened his mouth to quickly respond, then closed it again. "No," he finally admitted. "It's just. . . I don't know." He sighed heavily.

"Shire is your kid's kidney doctor too, you know. I think if Martina or her mother didn't like him, they'd have said something."

"Yeah. You're right." McCormick conceded, his voice low and weary. Then he surprised Hardcastle by smiling. "Y'know, I knew there was a reason why I wanted you to come back here. Between you an' Livvie harping at me, I think I'm startin' to see what a whiny dope I'm bein'."

"What did you – 'Livvie'?"

"Hmm?" Mark blinked, looking at Hardcastle's amused grin. "Wha'?" It was obvious from his expression and his faltering speech that sleep was in the offing.

"Nothing, kid." Milt set aside the papers that Shire had left – he had a feeling McCormick wouldn't be in any condition to go through the information in them until he'd had another nap. The judge reached for the bed control, lowering the head of the bed so that Mark was no longer in a sitting position. The younger man jerked slightly at the unexpected motion. "Whaddaya doin'?"

"Quiet." Hardcastle reached up to turn off the light over the kid's bed. "Just don't sleep through supper, okay? You'll never get out of here if you don't start eating."

"What letter you think it'll be?" Mark perked up slightly. "Since it's Friday, maybe 'F' for fish?"

"Sure, maybe." Milt played along. "Flounder, or flatfish. A nice fried filet."

When Mark finally gave in to sleep, there was still a shadow of a grin of his face.

ooOoo

Hardcastle had barely left McCormick when a younger but just as curly-haired individual was in his path. "What happened?" Olivia demanded. "What did Dr. Shire say?"

Martina was following her daughter, irritated. "Olivia, you are really trying my patience." The woman looked guiltily at Hardcastle. "I'm sorry for the ambush, Milt – she's been pacing the waiting room and she took off as soon as she saw you in the hallway."

Milt nodded, smiling at the girl. "Don't worry about it. I can try to tell you what the doctor said, but I don't know exactly how much I'll get right. I mean, you know more about this stuff than either of us, although I think I'm getting the gist." Milt tilted his head back toward McCormick's room, and then addressed Martina. "Shire gave him some info. I left the papers in there. I'm hoping maybe Mark will look at them in a little better frame of mind when he wakes up."

"He's asleep again?" Olivia whined, agitated. It was hard to tell if the reaction was more of concern or annoyance. Martina placed a hand on the girl's shoulder. "Honey, calm down."

Olivia shook off the hand, jerking away. Martina persisted, now taking both shoulders and turning her daughter around to face her. "Mark's recovering from a bad infection. You know what it feels like to be sick that way – you've been in his place more than once, and not that long ago. And it's not just that he's ill . . . The last few days have been rough for him. He needs to rest, and you need to settle down."

"Not my fault he's had a bad coupla days," Olivia muttered. "I'm not the one that flew to California on Tuesday to tell him he's got a daughter _and_ a progressive kidney disease."

Martina dropped her hands from her daughter's shoulders, looking stung. Olivia stared at the floor, but did not give any indication that she was ready to apologize for her tactless, if essentially true, words.

Hardcastle wasn't sure what to say to end the awkward moment. He silently wished he had McCormick's gift for humorous asides. The judge settled for clearing his throat, and both mother and daughter looked at him expectantly. He smiled wanly, idly checked his watch, and then brought up the only thing he could think of.

"It'll be getting on near suppertime soon. You know any place nearby where I can get something decent? I'm not really looking forward to more cafeteria food."

Olivia's face had changed in an instant. The gloominess disappeared as hope and a kind of excitement took over. "You should come to our house. My grandma's making vegetable lasagna for supper. It's actually really good. And she always makes too much."

Milt's gaze lifted from the girl to her mother. Martina's expression was surprised, but when she spoke, she seemed sincere. "I know it's probably not what you meant, Milt, but we'd be happy to have you come for supper."

Hardcastle considered the girl's spontaneous invitation. He wondered if Olivia had ulterior motives. It was possible she was hoping for a continuation of their earlier interrupted conversation. Typically he wouldn't think a nine-year-old girl could have devised a hidden agenda that quickly, but then again, this was McCormick's nine-year-old girl.

 _Well, you wanted to get to know the kid better. She's giving you an in; might as well take it._

"Vegetable lasagna sounds great," he lied.

ooOoo

From the moment Hardcastle had accepted the invitation to supper, Olivia had burst into an almost non-stop patter. From the hallway to the elevator, from the hospital exit to the parking area, from the side streets to the interstate, the girl chattered. Any and all topics were fair game: familiar landscapes were pointed out and described, plans for the upcoming weekend were discussed, a favorite song on the car stereo was appreciated ("Broken Wings" by somebody called Mr. Mister). The only time Olivia took a breath was when, after again asking about her father's visit with Dr. Shire, the girl waited anxiously for the judge to report. Hardcastle tried his best to sound encouraging as he shared what the doctor had said, making sure to repeat the terms "early stages" and "mild."

Apparently Milt's summary passed muster, at least for the time being. Olivia was off and running again in less than a minute. Sitting in the rear seat next to the girl, Hardcastle nodded absently from time to time when it seemed appropriate. He was lost in his own thoughts, wondering if he really felt as optimistic about McCormick's prognosis as he had led Olivia to believe. As he looked distractedly at the scenery, he heard the young girl's voice almost as white noise.

Familiar white noise.

Milt turned to Olivia, looking directly at her. Not waiting for her to pause in her current spiel, he said, "You know, you don't have to try so hard."

Olivia broke off, lowering her eyebrows. "What? What do you – I don't – I'm not –"

"You just sound a little worked up. Like maybe you're nervous about something."

Olivia leaned back, fiddling with her seat belt. "I'm not nervous," she said defensively. All of the previous gregarious jabber had faded. "I just. . ." She glanced up at the rear-view mirror. Hardcastle followed Olivia's gaze, and saw that Martina was watching them both in the reflection. When Martina realized she'd been caught, she quickly directed her eyes back to the road.

"You just what?" Milt prompted.

Olivia let out a soft, but heartfelt "Shoot!" before confirming, "Okay. I'm just a _little_ nervous."

"About what?"

Now Olivia was twirling her hair around her fingers. "About you. Meeting my grandmother."

"Ah." The judge smiled to himself. "Well. . . " He waited until was sure the girl was facing him, "Can I tell you something?" Hardcastle asked cautiously.

Olivia nodded immediately, looking intently into the warm blue eyes.

"I'm a little nervous about that, too."


	24. Chapter 24

_**Inheritance Tax**_ **by InitialLuv**

 **Chapter Twenty-Four**

Sandra Rivera had placed the prepped pan of vegetable lasagna in the refrigerator, not wanting to put it in the oven until Martina and Olivia returned from the hospital. She now shot a quick glance at the phone, pursing her lips in displeasure. _Would it be so hard for her to call? She didn't have any problem calling when she wanted Olivia back at the hospital to be Mark's therapist_. Sandra had told her daughter that she wanted them both home at a reasonable hour for supper, that her granddaughter needed the routine. After Martina's curious trip to California, Mark's unannounced arrival and identity reveal, and everything that had happened since, it was crucial that Olivia have some normalcy. Even if all "normal" meant was a home-cooked dinner to be eaten quietly with her family. _Her_ _ **real**_ _family_ , Sandra thought to herself.

Sandra had been paging through an American Dietetic Association cookbook when she heard her daughter's car pull up in the driveway. Placing a recipe card in the book to hold her page, she rose to set the oven on pre-heat, and then turned to welcome her little family home. She heard the strange voice even before the back door opened. Sandra took a deep breath, trying to quell her growing apprehension.

Martina came in the door first, the look on her face a mixture of apology and amusement. "Your granddaughter's idea," she said, and then Olivia appeared, pulling along the unexpected company. "Come on," the girl was saying. "Come meet her."

Sandra found herself facing a man of advanced years ( _Well, you're not exactly a blooming schoolgirl yourself_ ) dressed in casual clothes and wearing a Yankees baseball cap. Underneath the cap she could see slightly worried eyes and an uncertain smile.

"Grandma?" Olivia was standing between the man and her grandmother. "This is Mark's friend Milt. I invited him to come for supper."

The man held out a hand, and tried a larger smile. "Milt Hardcastle."

Sandra looked down at the offered hand. "I know who you are. You're the judge."

Milt's smile weakened, and his hand dropped a little. _Yeah, I know who you are too, lady._

"And you're the mother." Hardcastle tipped his head in Martina's direction.

Sandra took another deep breath. "I am. Sandra Rivera." She took the judge's hand, shaking it firmly. "It's nice to meet you."

After the hesitant pleasantries were exchanged, Sandra retrieved the lasagna from the refrigerator and carried it to the oven. "It'll be a while before this is done," she said, and then addressed her granddaughter. "Olivia, why don't you show Milt around, maybe show him where he can wash up."

Olivia pulled at Hardcastle's sleeve. "Come on. I think they want to talk about me."

 _Or about me._ Milt nodded at the two women, then followed the girl out of the room.

ooOoo

Olivia didn't go far. The kitchen merged with a dining room, and across the hallway from that was the family room. This is where Olivia led Milt. He gazed around the L-shaped room, taking in the comfortable, attractive furnishings in the longer portion of the room. In the shorter section of the "L" was a small upright piano with a walnut finish. Hardcastle glanced over at the piano briefly. He next noticed a grouping of framed photos on a nearby wall, centered above a long, plush couch. Olivia saw what had caught his attention. She came over to kneel on the couch, and she made a weak gesture at the photographs. "The 'me' wall," she said, and when Milt turned to look at the girl, he saw she was blushing in embarrassment.

The photographs appeared to be in chronological order, from Olivia as a baby up to her current age. The main point of the selected photos seemed to be that they were solitary shots of a smiling Olivia; neither Martina nor Sandra appeared in any of them. A few of the photos were duplicates of the ones Martina had brought to California for Mark.

"Did your dad see these?" Hardcastle turned from the wall to the subject of the photographs.

Olivia thought for a moment and then shrugged. "I don't know. I wasn't here when he got here – I don't know how long he'd already been here. I don't think he saw them." She rose from the couch, crossing to the piano. Grabbing a small pile of sheet music off of the piano bench, she lifted the lid to place the papers inside. Olivia sat on the bench with her back to the piano, leaning forward slightly to study the floor. She kicked her feet back and forth restlessly.

Milt looked down at the young figure, and crooked a grin. _How did I not notice that before?_

"What, did you get dressed in the dark?"

Olivia stopped kicking her feet, and hooked one foot behind the other in a vain attempt to hide the mismatched shoes. She didn't answer, instead sending a sulky look in the judge's direction. He grinned at her reaction as he sat himself in a nearby loveseat. "You gotta stop doing that," he said, chuckling.

"What?" she asked sullenly.

"The looks you give me. You probably don't realize how much you look like him, how you even have the same facial expressions." Milt cocked his head toward the pictures on the wall. "I don't know what he looked like as a kid, but I'll bet he had that same smile."

"Haven't you seen any pictures of him as a kid? I've seen a lot of my mom when she was little."

Milt shook his head, frowning slightly. "No, I don't think he's got any. Well, maybe one or two, but not like a photo album or anything. And nothing that's he shown me. He's a little private when it comes to his childhood. Doesn't talk about it much."

"Really?" Olivia straightened on the bench, looking at the judge with a growing curiosity. "Why?"

Hardcastle was still frowning, trying to think. "Well, he has talked about a few things," he backtracked. "He's told me how he and his friends used to get into all sorts of trouble. And he's shared a few school stories, from back when he was your age. But he doesn't talk a whole lot about his family. At least, not until recently. Your mom showing up like she did brought a heap of stuff to the surface."

"Is that what she meant when she said he'd had a bad couple of days?" Olivia guessed.

Hardcastle raised his eyebrows. "You know, you're a pretty smart kid." Olivia blushed again, running her hands over the piano bench. Milt smiled at the girl's modesty. He cleared his throat, and abruptly changed the subject.

"Who plays?" he asked, indicating the piano.

"Oh!" Olivia seemed to suddenly realize she was sitting on a piano bench. "I do, I guess."

"You guess?"

"Well, Grandma and Mom can play some, but just kind of little things. They got the piano more for me. Mom got a good deal from the school district when they updated one of the music rooms." Olivia twisted around on the bench to face the piano. She lifted the fallboard, then rubbed her hands together, stretching out her fingers. "You wanna hear something? Got any requests?"

Milt shrugged. "I don't know – just play me something you know." He rose from the small sofa, coming to stand near the piano.

Olivia bent her head, thinking, and then smiled. She placed her fingers lightly on the keyboard, and then began to play.

It took a few moments before Hardcastle could recognize the song. But it wasn't because Olivia's playing was rough or inept; in fact, it was the effortless skill of her playing that threw Milt off. He stared at the girl, his mouth hanging open, for several bars of the song before he realized what he was listening to was "California Dreamin'."

After about a minute of playing, Olivia stilled her hands and peered up at Hardcastle with a smile. "I thought that one was appropriate."

Milt let out an amazed breath. "You did that from memory," he said, looking at the empty music shelf. "You didn't even use any sheet music."

Olivia squinted ahead, as if she was looking at something far away. "I think I did the first time I played it. But I'm pretty good at remembering. My grandma says I have a 'prodigious inclination for musical ability.' Or something like that." She looked back at the judge hopefully. "What about my dad? Can he sing or play an instrument or anything?"

"He can play the tambourine," Hardcastle laughed. "He is always singing, but it's usually just dopey stuff meant to drive me crazy." About the only time Hardcastle was aware of McCormick singing without acting like a goof was when the kid sang along to the radio.

Olivia's face fell. She dropped her hands limply into her lap. "Oh. Shoot. I thought I might take after him. You know, in more than just looks. My mom said I maybe inherited the music talent from him."

Milt, swayed by the plaintive words, found himself reassuring the girl. "Maybe you did inherit it. I guess the music thing could've skipped – I mean, you could've indirectly inherited it. Your dad's got a relative who's 'musically inclined.'" The judge had to rein himself in before he let out too much information.

"A relative?" Olivia pressed. "I have another relative out there? What, someone like an uncle or an aunt?"

Hardcastle understood the girl's sudden interest, but he refused to confirm or deny. "I'd better not say. Your dad got a little ticked at me this morning when I was talking out of turn."

Olivia was looking down at the piano keys, not exactly listening. She appeared lost in thought, still analyzing the possibilities of this new revelation. "No," she murmured to herself, "you said 'skipped.' And his mom's dead, but you didn't say he had a relative, you said he has a relative." After several quiet seconds Olivia's face lit up, and she grinned up at the judge.

"I have a grandfather!"

"Shoot," Hardcastle muttered.

* * *

Hardcastle pushed away his plate after finishing his second serving of lasagna, and leaned back comfortably in his chair. "That was terrific," he admitted. "Olivia told me it would be, but I wasn't sure what I was in for." He smiled candidly at Sandra. "If I can find some good healthy recipes like this one, maybe the kid won't be so worked up about changing his diet."

"Dr. Shire will refer him to a dietitian," Martina said. "It helps to have someone to talk to, a place to start. My mother has this cookbook – "

Sandra interrupted her daughter. "Why would you need the recipes? He's a grown man, he does know how to cook, doesn't he?" The older woman had risen to clear the plates from the table. She stood still now, looking expectantly at the judge.

"We take turns cooking," Hardcastle answered mildly.

Sandra didn't respond, but the upward roll of her eyes made her disapproval obvious. She placed the dishes in the sink. When she turned back to the table, Milt was staring hard at her.

"What was that for?"

"What do you mean?" Sandra asked, feigning innocence.

"That look. You know." Hardcastle straightened in his chair. "If you have a problem, spit it out."

A tense shroud fell over the table. Martina looked pointedly at her daughter. "Olivia, you can be excused."

The girl gaped at her mother. "Why? I thought there was Jell-O. And I'm supposed to do the dishes."

Sandra scoffed. "And you always complain about doing the dishes. The only reason you're volunteering now is because you want to eavesdrop. Listen to your mother. You may leave the table."

Olivia stood, angrily pushing back her chair. She glanced once at Milt, then started to leave the dining area.

"And don't blare your music! You're going to end up with hearing loss!" Sandra called out at the departing form. Olivia paused briefly, gave a short exhale, and then left the room.

When Olivia had been given an appropriate amount of time to reach her room, Sandra sat down again at the table. She addressed Milt.

"What exactly is Mark's arrangement with you? Martina was under the impression his parole was up."

"It is," Milt answered. "Has been for two years."

"But he still lives with you."

Hardcastle shrugged. "He's going to law school. It's hard work and long hours. We have an arrangement. He's staying at the estate at least until he graduates."

"And maybe longer?"

"What does this have to do with anything, Mom?" Martina broke in.

Sandra turned to her daughter. "He doesn't have a job. He doesn't have his own place. He ignored the fact that he was ill, flying cross-country and risking his health. He wouldn't have even gone to the hospital if I hadn't taken him. Does that sound like a responsible father-figure?"

"He doesn't need to be a 'father-figure.' He's her father, period." Hardcastle's voice burned with hostility.

Sandra looked at the judge, surprised by the man's intensity. "Fine," she allowed. "But the rest of what I said is true – "

"He has a job. He works for me. But right now law school is his job. And he has a place to live for as long as he needs." Milt paused, frowning. "I'm not thrilled with how he's been handling his diagnosis, but you can hardly fault him for coming out here." He turned to Martina. "You act like you know him pretty well. You had to know when you showed up in L.A., shoving those pictures under his nose, that he'd follow you back here, sick or not. I know at least you understand what having a family means to him."

"And I don't?" Sandra asked.

"No, I don't think you do." Milt glared at the older woman. "If you had any idea, any inkling how important a family is to him, you wouldn't have kept his kid away from him for almost ten years. Or you would have given him some kind of support when his mother died, instead of casting him aside."

Sandra met the glare with one of her own. "Support? He was hardly helpless."

"He was a fifteen-year-old kid!"

"And I suppose you think he was my responsibility?"

Hardcastle spread his hands in an affirmative gesture. "Why the hell not? Who else was there? His uncle? The state? Because I'll tell you, neither of them did him any good."

Sandra lowered her head, and massaged her forehead. "You have to understand. . . He was too unpredictable, too uncontrollable. He didn't belong in our – in Martina's life." She lifted her head to look at her daughter. "You were so love-struck you couldn't see the future for what it was. I wanted you to go to college, have a career, marry a competent, well-rounded person. I didn't want you to be held back playing nursemaid to a lost cause."

"He's not a lost cause!" Hardcastle was out of his chair before he even realized it. The words echoed in the room as both women looked up at him in alarm. No one spoke, and Milt was vaguely aware that he was breathing hard. He concentrated on calming his nerves, quietly returning to his chair.

The silence was broken unexpectedly by piano music. Three heads turned in the direction of the family room.

"I should've known she hadn't gone to her room," Martina said. "Not when she could listen in on us instead."

The piano music was soon accompanied by a charmingly delicate voice.

"Hush, hush.  
Keep it down, now.  
Voices carry."

A gradual smile appeared on Martina's face, and she began to snicker. "Unbelievable," she said, shaking her head. She pushed her chair back, beginning to rise.

"No, I'll go." Sandra was out of her seat before Martina had the chance to stand. The older woman pushed her chair in, and then looked directly at Hardcastle. "I'm done talking, anyway."

Milt watched the older woman leave the dining area. He turned back to Martina with a troubled frown.

"I'm sorry for getting worked up. I used to be able to handle my anger better than that." He smiled wryly. "Before I met McCormick, at least."

"You're very protective of him."

"Someone has to be. Especially with all of this going on. He needs someone on his side." Hardcastle studied Martina. "I notice you didn't defend him much just now. You'd think you'd be a little more loyal, considering he's your kid's father."

"And she's my mother." Martina sighed. "Don't ask me to choose." She paused, looking in the direction her mother had gone. "Don't judge her too harshly, Milt. You don't know her. You barely know me."

Hardcastle flapped a dismissive hand. "McCormick seems okay with you. That's all I need to know."

"When he doesn't hate me," Martina muttered to herself. Louder, she said, "And I'm sure you know how Mark feels about my mother. That wouldn't be coloring your perception of her a little, would it?"

Hardcastle didn't respond. He glanced away from the penetrating eyes.

"Milt." Martina waited until the man had turned back to face her. "You _don't_ understand. When we realized Mark might have PKD, my mother was just as concerned as I was. I was still reeling from Olivia's diagnosis, so my mother took charge of finding him. She paid for the private investigator we used to track Mark down. She paid for half of my plane ticket to California. She was the one that took Mark to the emergency room yesterday, and she stayed with him for four hours, until he was finally admitted. She said she was worried about leaving him when he was confused and sick and alone."

Hardcastle shook his head, briefly closing his eyes. "You're right. I don't get it." He pushed his chair away from the table, rising slowly. "So I guess she'll just have to explain it to me."

* * *

 _ **Author's Note**_ : The song that Olivia sings is 'Til Tuesday's "Voices Carry." One of my personal faves.

 **Jell-O** is a registered trademark of Kraft Foods.

 **-ck**


	25. Chapter 25

_**Inheritance Tax**_ **by InitialLuv**

 **Chapter Twenty-Five**

"Hey, kiddo? You up?"

Milt Hardcastle pushed the hospital door ajar as he spoke the hesitant words. Peeking in at the inclined hospital bed, he saw a curly head turn his way. Satisfied that he hadn't interrupted another nap, the judge stepped fully into the room. He raised his left hand to show Mark the duffel bag in his grasp. "Martina thought you might want your clothes and stuff."

McCormick nodded. "No backpack?"

"It's still – I guess she still has that. Was there anything in it you need?"

"Nah. Not in here, I guess. They've already got my pills." Mark shifted in the bed with a slight groan. "Where were you?" he asked next.

Milt placed the duffel on the floor of the small closet, then came to stand near the bed. "I went out to grab a bite." He gestured at the light above the bed. "Can I turn this on?" The room was dim in the oncoming dusk, even with the light spilling in from the hall.

McCormick shrugged one shoulder, and the judge reached up to switch on the light. "I know visiting hours end soon," he said, as he moved back to sit in the chair. "But I wanted to come bring you that. . . " Hardcastle trailed off, closely studying his friend. "What's wrong? What happened?"

Now that the judge could see better, he was alarmed by Mark's appearance. The younger man's face was pale and drawn, there were bruise-like shadows under his bloodshot eyes, and he was resting heavily against the pillows in obvious exhaustion.

McCormick sighed, lifting a hand in half-wave. "The stone made a break for it."

"Whaddaya mean? Did it pass?"

This time McCormick snorted lightly. "Eventually."

"Oh!" Milt raised his eyebrows. "That's. . . good, right?"

Mark shook his head gingerly, as if even that small movement was too tiring. "Oh, yeah. It was great. A mind-blowing experience that everyone should have at least once in their lives."

Hardcastle wiped a hand over his face, hiding a grin that he didn't think McCormick would appreciate. "What did the doctor say?" he asked. "You going to get out of here soon, now?"

Another weak shrug. "He said they'll run some more tests tomorrow, and maybe do another x-ray. Oh, and they want me to eat two meals and keep them down before they talk about discharging me." He looked at the judge with a regretful grimace. "I threw up my supper when – when everything happened. Bad timing."

Milt mirrored the grimace. "Sorry, kid. But at least it's done and over with, right?"

Mark sunk back farther into the pillows. "Yeah. Until the next one." He sighed again. "Once you get a kidney stone, the risk increases that you'll get more. They're gonna analyze the stone and see what it's made of, like calcium, or uric acid. . . I don't know. But whatever they find, I'm gonna have to change my diet to try to avoid getting more stones. Eat less 'bad' things, more 'good.'" McCormick accompanied this last statement with halfhearted air quotes. "But I knew that was going to happen anyway, with this PKD – having to change how I eat. Especially if my kidneys aren't working at full capacity, aren't able to break down the calcium or minerals or whatever." He jerked his head minutely at the bedside table. "At least that's what I get from those papers Shire left."

Hardcastle looked toward the small sheaf of papers, now held together with the clip on a ballpoint pen. He could see there were hand-written notes in the available white spaces on the pages. Lifting the papers to get a better look, the judge found the small notepad underneath. Several sheets of the notepad were also covered with Mark's writing. Hardcastle took a minute to scan over the copious notes, feeling a twinge in his chest that he could only describe as pride. He smiled to himself.

 _I guess you were jumping the gun a little when you told Sandra he wasn't handling his diagnosis too well. The kid just needed to adjust his idle._

Milt looked up from the papers, his smile fading. He set the pages back on the table, and then regarded his friend apprehensively.

I've got somethin' to tell you, and I don't want you to get all steamed at me again."

"That's not really something I can promise, Judge." After a brief silence in which the older man scowled at the floor, Mark said softly, "I'll try, though. What is it?"

Hardcastle raised his eyes. "Olivia knows about Sonny," he blurted.

Even in his weariness, Mark was able to raise himself up on his elbows. "How?"

Milt spread his hands in frustration. "I don't know!"

"Well, who told her? I haven't said anything to Marty about Sonny."

"I guess. . . Well, I guess I kinda told her." When McCormick squinted a glare at Hardcastle, the older man continued. "I didn't mean to, you know. And I didn't tell her outright – she figured it out." Milt smiled unconsciously.

"This is funny to you?" McCormick had lowered himself back into a more relaxed position, but he was still intently glowering at Hardcastle.

"Did you know your kid could play piano?"

Mark blinked, somewhat confused by the question. "Uh. . . Yeah. I think – yeah, Marty told me. So?" he asked. "A lot of kids can play piano. I might have even learned how, if my mom hadn't had to sell ours."

"I'm not talking about 'a lot of kids,' I'm talking about your kid. And it's not just that she can play piano. She's good. _Really_ good."

McCormick huffed out a bemused exhale. "What did you do, take her out to eat at a piano bar?"

Milt shuffled his feet and adjusted himself in the bedside chair. "Not exactly."

"What, exactly?"

"I went to their place for supper."

"You had supper with them. Olivia and Marty." Mark stared. "And _Sandra_?"

Hardcastle nodded. "Yeah. I didn't plan on it or anything," the judge said defensively. "She just invited me out of the blue. I couldn't say no."

"Who invited you? Marty?"

"Olivia."

"Oh, Judge." McCormick shook his head. "You had to know she did that so she could grill you for information."

"Of course I knew that! I'm not an idiot, McCormick!" Hardcastle sent a hard stare right back at the kid. "But I figured if I had the chance to spend some time with her, I should take it. Seeing as how she's your kid, and she's gonna be in your life from now on. . . Well, I thought I should get to know her better."

"Oh." Mark took a breath, looking away. "That's. . ." He smiled faintly, then looked back at his friend. "Thanks, Judge."

Hardcastle waved a hand, not replying. Both men were silent for a moment until McCormick remembered the topic at hand.

"So how did Sonny come up?"

Milt made a face, obviously hoping the subject had been forgotten. "Okay. The kid's got some kinda musical talent. I mean, like, inherent. And she asked me if maybe she inherited it from you. When I told her how unlikely that was – "

"Unlikely. Gee, thanks a lot, Judge."

"Ah, we both know you can't hold a tune in a bucket. Anyway, she was pretty disappointed. She got this pitiful look on her face, like somebody just told her her dog died, and I couldn't bear to look at it – "

"Puppy-dog eyes?"

"Woulda stop interrupting me!" Hardcastle raised his voice, glaring at the younger man. McCormick instantly appeared apologetic, nearly to the point of being distraught.

"Sorry, Judge." Mark's voice was quiet, almost sad.

Milt immediately regretted his shouted words. What the hell was he doing, yelling at a man in a hospital bed, a man who looked so obviously sick and distressed and remorseful?

"Aw, that's all right, kid. I'm sorry I yelled at you. You didn't deserve – Damn it!"

"Something amiss?" Mark's contrite expression was replaced by wide-eyed innocence.

"How many times have you done that to me? What have you gotten away with?" the judge demanded.

McCormick grinned. "Not really _that_ much. . . Usually you don't fall for it. I guess when I'm in a hospital the look comes across a lot more pathetic. Or is it just when it comes from a nine-year-old kid?"

Hardcastle hmmphed. "Well, I don't think _she_ did it to con me. I think she really was upset. So I tried to buck her up, told her maybe she inherited it indirectly, that you had a relative who had some 'musical ability,' and she figured out the rest. She's really a pretty smart kid."

"Yeah, another thing she didn't inherit from me? Not the smarts, and definitely not the musical talent?"

"Oh, knock it off!" Milt shook his head in exasperation. "I didn't say anything about you not being smart. Just that you can barely keep a beat with a tambourine."

McCormick tilted his head, as if acknowledging the truth of the last statement. "Well, what did you tell her about Sonny?"

"Not any details. I told you I'd leave the specifics up to you. And it wasn't easy. She was interrogating me, wondering what he looked like, how old he was, where he was, what his talent was –"

"I hope you didn't tell her safe-cracking."

The judge shot McCormick a sharp look.

"I know, I know. Stop interrupting."

Hardcastle shrugged. "I was kinda done anyway. At least with that. There was another discussion that came up later, around the dinner table."

From a speaker in the hallway, both men heard a chime ring over the P.A. It was followed by a quiet recording stating that visiting hours would be ending in ten minutes.

Mark checked his watch. As Milt regarded the movement, he realized the younger man had his watch on his right wrist. "What's with that?" he asked, pointing.

"Huh?" McCormick looked at his watch blankly. "Oh. It's just easier. Every time I move my left arm the IV bugs me."

Hardcastle recalled how his friend used to wear his timepiece on his dominant hand when he first came to Gulls' Way. _That was four – no, five years ago_.

 _ **Five** years?_

Milt shook off the memories, knowing it wasn't the time to reminisce. "Okay, I've only got a few minutes, so shut up and let me tell you what I need to tell you."

Mark lifted his eyebrows. He made an obvious motion of settling himself, pressing his lips tightly together in anticipation.

There was a strained silence. Milt cleared his throat. "Okay," he repeated. "So after supper Sandra started asking her own questions. Not about Sonny, I don't mean that. Questions about you." The judge paused, not sure how to phrase the next words. He forced himself to push ahead. "And her and I, we got into a, well, I guess you would call it a disagreement." Hardcastle scratched an earlobe, then rubbed his chin. "An argument."

McCormick's lips were no longer pressed together. They were now stretched in a wide grin.

A second chime pealed, followed by the recording informing visitors of the five minutes they had remaining.

Hardcastle glanced toward the hallway, and then turned back to his delighted friend. "Whaddaya grinning about?" he asked roughly.

"Nothing." If anything, Mark's grin grew.

"How do you know I was defending you in this argument? Maybe I threw you to the wolves, you ever think about that?"

"Nope."

"Okay. But you gotta listen to me here, sport. You remember when you met your dad in Atlantic City, and he said that he had a story on his side of it, an explanation of why he left you and your mom?"

"Yeah. I remember." A somber expression had replaced the grin. "But I don't see what that has to do with anything."

"What I'm trying to say is that there's two sides to any story."

"Wait." Mark held up a hand. It was shaking slightly. "Are you trying to tell me Sandra has a side, an 'explanation' for why she's treated me like crap for almost twenty years?"

"Yeah. She does. I think she needs to tell you, and you need to hear it."

Mark slowly lowered his hand. The paleness of his face had increased.

" _Attention: Visiting hours have now ended_."

"Didja hear me, kiddo?" Hardcastle pressed, leaning closer to the bed.

"Yeah. I heard you. But if you think I'm gonna talk to her about 'her side,' then you're a coupla donkeys short of a herd." McCormick swallowed. "Thanks for bringing me my things, but I think it's time for you to leave." The younger man motioned to the doorway. "Visiting hours have now ended."

Milt rose, uncertainty painted on his face. Mark purposefully looked away, intently studying the window and the darkening sky.

"I'll talk to you tomorrow."

Mark didn't respond. He gaze didn't leave the window, even after the judge had left the room, closing the door behind him.

* * *

Mark's breakfast tray had been cleared, he'd provided his (hopefully final) blood and urine samples, and he'd just finished shaving when the phone rang for the second time that morning. Grabbing the IV pole, he rushed from the bathroom in time to nab the phone on the fourth ring. His "Hello?" was a little breathless.

 _"Mark? Are you okay?"_

"Oh, Marty, hi." McCormick smiled cheerily at the sound of the woman's voice. "I thought you were the judge."

 _"He's not there?"_

"No – he called earlier, said he was going to see about renting a car. And yeah, I'm all right. I was just in the bathroom when I heard the phone." He wiped some left-over shaving cream off of his chin.

 _"So how are you?"_

"Actually, pretty good." Mark sat on the edge of the bed. "It looks like I'm getting out of here today, probably right after lunch – as long as my tests are okay. My temp's normal and I actually kept my breakfast down. Which wasn't easy, considering how lousy it was. Lumpy oatmeal and cold eggs. They even screwed up the fruit. It tasted like rubber."

 _"What do you mean you 'actually' kept it down?"_

"Ah, supper last night didn't go too well. Not long after I ate, the kidney stone passed. Which is good, that's what they wanted, but I kinda got sick." He paused, then in a caustic tone, said, "I'm surprised you didn't know that already. I hear you and Hardcastle have gotten pretty chummy."

Martina didn't answer right away, and Mark felt slightly guilty for the harsh words. He was about to apologize when she beat him to it.

 _"I'm sorry, Mark. It was just vegetable lasagna. I don't think any of us expected what happened."_

McCormick scoffed. "Well, I could've told you what to expect from Hardcase. I guess he and your mom got into it, huh?"

 _"At first. They ended up calling a truce. He didn't tell you that part?"_

Mark neglected to answer the question, instead asking one of his own. "Why are you calling, Marty?"

Martina paused again. Mark heard a soft sigh before she answered. _"I just wanted to let you know we won't be by to see you today. Olivia's not feeling up to it._ "

"What? What do you mean? Is she okay? She's not getting sick, is she? What's wrong?"

 _"Mark!"_ Martina interrupted his frantic inquiries. _"She's all right – just tired. She tires out easier lately. You know, these past few days have been rough for her, too."_

"You're sure she's okay? You'd tell me if something was wrong, wouldn't you?" There was a heavy pressure in McCormick's gut, one that he hadn't felt in a long time – at least not since Hardcastle's mistaken terminal diagnosis. He absentmindedly hoped a doctor or nurse wouldn't choose that moment to check on him. He had a feeling if someone saw his physical distress, his afternoon discharge might get postponed. Mark forced himself to relax, purposefully slowing his breathing.

 _"She's **fine** , Mark. She's just resting. But if you get discharged, you should come over here. I know she wants to see you."_

 _Yeah, and Sandra will be thrilled to see me, too._ "Yeah, maybe. I think the first thing I wanna do when I get out of here is take a long hot shower at the hotel." Mark looked up as a smiling nurse entered the room. "But I gotta go, Marty – I'll talk to you later, okay?"

The nurse spoke as Mark hung up the phone. "How would you like to get that IV out, Mr. McCormick?"

"If you can take this damn tube out of me, I just might marry you."

ooOoo

By twelve forty-five, Mark was sitting in the bedside chair, repeatedly checking his watch.

He was freshly dressed in his own clothes, a tee-shirt and jeans he'd dug out of the duffel, and his wallet was back at home in his rear jeans pocket. He'd already signed his discharge papers, after an edifying meeting with Lorenzo and Shire, the doctors having entered his room just as Mark was finishing lunch. McCormick had spoken separately with Walter Shire for almost a half-hour. The nephrologist had read the notes Mark had written down the previous afternoon, and had answered or addressed more of the questions than McCormick had expected. Mark had been pleasantly surprised by Shire's change in bedside manner, and had decided maybe it was _his_ demeanor that had improved. _You haven't been on your best behavior these last few days, that's for sure_ , he'd inwardly scolded himself. The nephrologist had ended their discussion by firmly advising that Mark make a follow-up visit before returning to California, and Mark had promised he'd do his best.

McCormick had been given his medications back, as well an additional prescription for the oral antibiotic, and had also been introduced to the dietitian, who had arrived with a binder of papers. The two had shared a short conversation about necessary changes to his diet and eating habits, and the woman had produced a related document for almost any situation. She had left the room to make copies of cooking hints and cookbook references, suggesting he read over the nutritional information while he waited. _**More**_ _paperwork?_ he'd wondered to himself, fanning the sheaf she'd already given him. McCormick had set the papers aside, instead phoning Hardcastle's hotel room. He'd gotten no response, and then had sat in the chair to grumpily wait for the dietitian to return.

Mark lifted his wrist to check the time again. _Where the hell is he? What am I supposed to do, take a cab to his hotel?_ A sharp knock on the door redirected his thoughts. "About time," he muttered, facing the door and waiting for the judge's venerable presence.

Sandra Rivera entered the hospital room. She looked at the man seated in the chair, and at the duffel bag on the floor beside him. "Have you filled out your discharge papers?" she asked. "Do you have everything?"

McCormick stared at her. When she only gazed back at him in an expectant manner, he jerked lightly, then heard himself answering. "The dietitian is bringing me some stuff yet. Then I'm good to go." He studied her with a growing unease. "Why?"

"I'm your ride."


	26. Chapter 26

_**Author's Note:**_ This chapter contains a flashback. The flashback portion is in **bold**.

Happy Labor Day (and Cow Chip) Weekend!

 **-ck**

* * *

 _ **Inheritance Tax**_ **by InitialLuv**

 **Chapter Twenty-Six**

McCormick had held out hope that Sandra was just dropping him off at Hardcastle's hotel, but was discouraged to learn that, after a stop at a pharmacy, the "ride" would be to Tarrytown. Bristling at the idea of having to share a vehicle with Sandra for a half-hour, Mark tried to find a bright side. He _had_ survived the trip with Sandra on Thursday, when she had driven him to the emergency room. Although he had been a little distracted at the time, gasping through the back pain while flopping around like a fish, trying to find a comfortable position.

McCormick decided to concentrate on the fact that he would be able to have a prolonged visit with his daughter in a place other than a hospital. But he had a hard time holding on to that pleasant thought during the humiliating wheelchair ride from his room to the curb where Sandra's car waited. And that took barely five minutes.

 _How am I going to get through a half-hour?_

ooOoo

McCormick exited the pharmacy with the standard small white bag grasped in his hand. _That's three new prescriptions in four days, McCormick, count 'em, three._ He opened the front door of Sandra's car, and after seating himself, he threw the paper bag into the back seat. The antibiotic pills rattled in their bottle as the bag landed near his duffel. Sandra glanced at the young man as she started the vehicle. Mark had wedged himself against the passenger door, in an attempt to get as far away from the woman as possible. He sat with his arms crossed, staring mutely out the windshield.

Sandra drove for a few miles before speaking. "This isn't exactly what I had in mind."

"What did you expect?"

She shook her head tightly. "I expected you to be a little more receptive. He said you were willing to listen."

Mark uncrossed his arms, looking hard at Sandra. "He? Oh, no wonder he didn't call me back. Hardcase set this up, didn't he?"

Sandra exhaled. "Judge Hard _castle_ did suggest this, yes."

McCormick snorted at the woman's propriety. "Boy, you've got a real problem with nicknames." When she didn't answer, only pursing her lips, he went on. "Or is it just me you have a problem with? You really hate that I call Martina 'Marty.'"

"I didn't name her 'Marty,' I named her Martina," Sandra answered. "Not to mention Marty is a man's name."

"A man's name," Mark muttered. After a moment he said, "How would you like it if I started calling Olivia 'Ollie'?"

The look Sandra sent his way was so horrified that McCormick was surprised into laughter. "It's a joke!" he sputtered. "Calm down, Sandy!"

Sandra ran a hand through her hair. "I don't know why I thought this was going to work. You just can't be serious."

"You want serious?" Mark shot back. "Fine. I am seriously angry at you for keeping Olivia from me for almost ten years. And I seriously don't think I can ever forgive you for that."

"You're right."

Mark leaned closer, sure he had heard wrong. "What? What did you say?"

Sandra sighed. "Do you want me to write it down? I said that you're right."

"Well, I knew that. I just didn't expect you to admit it." McCormick grinned. "Senility must be creeping up on you."

Sandra brought the car to a stop at a red light. She turned to Mark. "This is exactly why this won't work. It's impossible for you to talk to me without getting mouthy. I have more intelligent conversations with Olivia."

"Yeah, and you're a real delight to talk to."

When the light turned green, Sandra abruptly flipped on her blinker, quickly turning right. A horn blared from a car behind them. Ignoring the sound, Sandra pulled over into a nearby parking lot behind a church. She turned the ignition off.

Mark looked around. "What's going on? Why'd you stop?"

"We're going to talk. Without sniping and crude remarks. We have to sort this out between us," Sandra stressed. "Otherwise we'll never be able to co-exist. And I won't do that to Olivia."

 _Why do I always get trapped in vehicles for talks like this?_ Mark wondered. He took a weary breath, leaning back against the car seat.

"I don't mean to get so smart-mouthed. I'll try to tone down the wisecracks. But you know, some people think I'm pretty funny."

"Well, I don't think I'm one of them."

Mark raised his eyebrows in derisive surprise, then shrugged. "You probably don't get my best material. When I get upset or uncomfortable, I'm more rude than funny."

"Then I must make you really uncomfortable."

"You have no idea."

There was no response from Sandra. When Mark chanced a look over at the woman, he was amazed to see she was almost smiling.

Feeling slightly humbled by the unexpected smile, no matter how thin, Mark was encouraged to make an effort. He looked away as he spoke, still wary of this forced interaction.

"The other day, when you took me to the ER, and stuck around," he started, "I didn't really thank you for that. I mean, I don't think I did – I wasn't really thinking straight so I'm not sure. . . But anyway, thanks."

"You don't have to thank me for that, Mark," Sandra said quietly.

McCormick looked up at the comment. "Oh," he said, in a defeated tone, "that's right. You're a nurse. Or are you retired? I guess it wouldn't matter, Hardcastle's retired but he's still an officer of the court, he still has legal rules he has to follow. . . You didn't have a choice, did you?"

Sandra's expression hardened, the smile fading at Mark's assumption. "You think I stayed with you at the hospital because of my nursing pledge? Is that what you're saying?"

McCormick didn't answer, only shifting his eyes to avoid Sandra's stare.

"If that's all it was, I would've gone home as soon as they had gotten you into an exam room. For that matter, I could've called an ambulance for you, and stayed home with my daughter and granddaughter. Once you were no longer in my care, I wasn't obliged to 'stick around' – it's not like you were a minor, or unconscious. If you think the only reason I stayed with you was because of some sense of duty, you must think very little of me."

It was hard, but Mark was able to reserve comment on Sandra's last statement. "Then why did you stay?" he inquired.

Sandra waved her hands in frustration, irritated with his naiveté. "You needed someone to help you," she said. "You were sick and in a strange hospital, with doctors who didn't know you. And then when your fever rose you started getting delirious. . . I couldn't leave until I knew you'd be all right." She lowered her eyes, sighing sadly. "I owed her that much," the woman murmured next, almost to herself.

"Owed who?" Mark wondered. "Marty? Or Olivia?"

Sandra turned to face him, her hazel eyes ( _Just like Marty's,_ McCormick thought) looking directly into his blue ones.

"Your mother," she said.

Mark stared back, momentarily uncomprehending. "What do you mean? My mother – you owed my mother? I don't – Why?"

"Because of what we talked about. What she wanted me to do. I told her I didn't think I could, that I couldn't make that kind of promise, but she was so sad and scared, and. . . I didn't even go in there to talk to her, I was looking for Martina – "

Mark held up a hand, stopping the woman's nervous words. "Just tell me," he ordered through gritted teeth.

"She made me promise to look after you."

Mark's face blanched. He sat silently for a beat, his hand still in the raised position. And then he was moving, turning and exiting the car in one fluid motion.

McCormick crossed the parking lot to the back entrance of the church. Grabbing the brass handle of the carved wood door, he was relieved to feel it open in his grasp. Stepping inside the cool building, he waited a moment in the entryway for his eyes to adjust to the change in lighting. Once he could clearly see the sparsely-filled seating area, Mark made his way to a shorter pew near the wall, away from the other worshipers. He instinctively dipped his fingers into the holy water font as he walked by, using the damp fingers to make the sign of the cross.

Mark had been sitting for about five minutes before Sandra stepped up to the edge of the pew. Feeling her presence, he spoke without facing her. "Leave me alone. I'm claiming sanctuary."

Sandra paused, as if seriously considering his sober words. Then with a soft exhale, she sat in the pew next to him.

Mark tensed, suddenly angered by the woman's proximity. Momentarily forgetting he was in a church, he rounded on his daughter's grandmother.

"You were supposed to look after me? You did a lousy job!"

"I know."

"Stop doing that! Stop agreeing with me!" McCormick exploded. When Sandra stared at him incredulously, he sighed in exasperation. "It doesn't change what you did, or fix anything. And it sure as hell doesn't explain anything!"

Sandra looked around the church, saw the few parishioners regarding them with mixed expressions of curiosity and disapproval. "Mark, wouldn't you be more comfortable back in the car?"

"No." Mark settled back, trying to appear relaxed in the unpadded, wooden pew.

"I just think we should take this discussion somewhere else."

" _No_ ," Mark repeated. "I feel safe here."

Sandra closed her eyes briefly. "I intimidate you that much, that you feel you have to be in a church to have a discussion with me?"

"I don't. . ." McCormick struggled to convey what he was feeling. "Maybe you don't bother me as much as the topic does. I just – I don't understand why you talked to my mother. Or why she talked to you." He looked away, knowing he needed to hear the explanation, but suddenly unsure if he could bear it.

Sandra settled in as well, clasping her hands in her lap. She looked down at her intertwined fingers as she spoke.

"Did you know Martina would visit your mother when you weren't there?"

Mark shook his head. "She never told me." He didn't specify whether he meant Martina or his mother, but it didn't matter to Sandra. She nodded, then went on. "I don't think she did it often, but it was enough that her supervisor noticed, and said something to me about Martina neglecting her other duties."

"Duties? She was a volunteer!"

"Just because she was a volunteer, that doesn't mean her job was less important, or unnecessary. She had specific tasks she was responsible for."

"Right. Delivering flowers and filling water pitchers." McCormick shook his head in irritation. "She shirked her important duties to spend time with a dying woman. Call the cops."

" _Mark_."

McCormick sighed, waving a hand in a gesture of apology. "Go on."

"I had thought about visiting your mother before, when it was obvious that you and Martina were more than friendly. But for some reason I never got around to it. Maybe I was hoping whatever you and Martina felt for each other would wane, I don't know. So it was late August when I finally met your mother.

"I was looking for Martina, and when I couldn't find her I went to your mother's room. You weren't there, you were at work or out with friends, I'm not sure. Martina wasn't there either. I had just peeked in, really, not wanting to disturb your mother, but she was awake and she saw me before I could leave. She asked me if I was a new nurse, and when I told her no, that I was a maternity nurse, she said. . . Let me see if I can remember. . . She told me, 'I hate to tell you, but I think you're lost.'"

Mark's smile was wistful, and brief. "Yeah," he whispered. "I can almost hear her."

* * *

 **"No, I'm not lost." The nurse shook her head with an amused smile. "I was actually looking for my daughter. Martina Rivera. She's a friend of your son's. I was told she visits you occasionally."**

 **The woman in the bed tilted her head, looking at the nurse with more interest. "You're Marty's mother."**

 **Sandra's smile became forced. " _Martina_. Yes. I'm Sandra Rivera."**

 **"Donna." The ill woman held out a hand. Sandra stepped forward to take it, noting the thin skin over the slender fingers. Donna's grasp was weak, and when Sandra released her hand, it fell limply onto the coverlet.**

 **The two women were silent for a moment, each studying the other. Donna broke the silence. She drew a labored breath, then said, "So – our children are an item."**

 **Sandra looked around the room silently, appearing unsure of her next move, or her next words. After a quick look at her wristwatch, the nurse sat in the visitor's chair alongside the bed. She crossed her legs, pulling her white skirt forward to cover her knees.**

 **"They have been spending some time together, yes. I don't know if I'd necessarily say they are in a relationship. Martina is only sixteen. And Mark . . ?"**

 **"Fifteen."**

 **"You see? They're too young," Sandra said firmly.**

 **"Too young? They're hardly Romeo and Juliet."**

 **"I should hope not," Sandra said, pondering the tragedy of the impulsive, star-crossed lovers. "This is just a crush. It'll pass." The words were decisive, but the woman's voice faltered.**

 **Donna nodded slowly. "If that's what you think," she said simply.**

 **Sandra regarded the pale, somber face. "You don't agree."**

 **"No. I've seen how Mark is around your daughter. How he's different." Donna paused thoughtfully. "I rarely see him without Martina now. She comes in with him, or she meets him when he's on his way out. It's. . .cute."**

 **"Cute?"**

 **"Romantic." The woman in the bed smiled faintly. "He's a charmer, my boy, but your daughter has him spellbound as well."**

 **Sandra squared her shoulders offensively. "Excuse me? My daughter does not have your son under any spell. She is not like that, and I don't appreciate the insinuation."**

 **"Oh, please." Donna lifted her hand marginally, attempting a wave that fell a little flat. "I didn't mean anything by it. I know she's not stringing him along, or whatever you think I meant. I just mean that he's fallen for her."**

 **"Well." Sandra settled back a little in the chair. "School starts next week. Martina will only be here for half-shifts on the weekends. Once they're apart, I'm sure whatever 'hold' your son has on my daughter will break."**

 **Donna laid her head back against her pillow. Her auburn hair lay lank around her face, emphasizing the paleness. Sandra saw that while the wavy hair had no luster, it also had no grey streaks. Sandra had started noticing grey strands in her own dark brown hair at least a year prior.**

 ** _She won't live long enough to see her first grey hair_ , the nurse realized with a sudden jolt.**

 **Sandra was still absorbing that disturbing thought when she became aware of Donna's grey eyes watching her.**

 **"You don't like Mark, do you?"**

 **Sandra fumbled for the words. "It's not a matter of me liking him. I – I don't think he's right for Martina. She doesn't normally have an interest in boys like him. He's a summer crush, an infatuation."**

 **"Boys like him," Donna repeated tiredly. "I think I know what you mean." She shifted in the bed, wincing. "He has trouble in school. He gets into fights. He spends too much time at that car wash 'job' of his. His friends are bad influences, sometimes with worse upbringings than Mark has had. God knows, I couldn't give him the decent home life he deserved."**

 **Sandra just looked at Donna, not sure how to respond, or even if she was expected to. After a moment, the woman in the bed took a deep breath, and then smiled. The effect was astonishing. Her face brightened, and her eyes sparkled. Even her limp hair seemed to glow. It was like the sickness that was killing her had vanished.**

 **"Oh, but he's so smart. And he'll stick up for his principles, or defend someone else, even if it means he has to fight. He's trying so hard to take care of everything, the apartment and the bills. . . In between being here and being at work, he barely has time to sleep. And he's loyal to a fault. He doesn't care if I think his friends are hoodlums or trouble – they're his friends, and he won't abandon them." Donna quieted, suddenly exhausted. The life seemed to ebb out of her, until she once again looked like a gaunt caricature of a once attractive woman.**

 **"He's so much more than I could have ever wanted in a son, and I love him so much." Donna's voice lowered to a mournful whisper. "I thought we'd have more time. I don't want to be done being his mother."**

 **Struck by the despairing words, Sandra was once again hesitant in her reply. "He. . . sounds like a very. . . competent young man."**

 **"He's had to be. It's just the two of us."**

 **"Where is his father?" Sandra asked. She had heard no mention from Martina about Mark's father, and had obtained no information from her own informal inquiries around the hospital. None of her co-workers had seen Mark's mother receive any visitors that would have fit the description of an ex-husband.**

 **"Gone. He left when Mark was five. We weren't married." The woman's tone was dull, lifeless.**

 **"You must have family. Someone who can take Mark in."**

 **Donna scoffed. "I have a brother. We don't talk. He lives nearby, but he hasn't even come to visit." She sighed deeply. "He'd probably take Mark in if he absolutely had to. He did once before, for a short time. But Mark doesn't get along with my brother. I think because of how Douglas treats me. Loyalty." Donna smiled again, yet the faint upward turn of her lips was nowhere near the previous radiant beam. "I think if Mark had the opportunity to stay with his uncle, he'd refuse it. He'd say he'd rather be on his own."**

 **"Well, that's ridiculous. He's fifteen. He can't stay on his own."**

 **Donna raised her eyebrows fractionally. "That's what he's doing now. But you're right. Even if he could manage it, I'd hate what it would do to him." Her sunken eyes scanned the hospital room almost unseeingly. She blinked, then turned to the nurse with a frown. "What time is it?"**

 **Sandra checked her wristwatch. "Almost four."**

 **"He'll be back soon. Please, Sandra, you have to help me."**

 **Sandra rose, quickly moving to the bedside. "What is it? What do you need?" Her eyes tracked up to the IV, and then down to the catheter. She placed a reassuring hand on Donna's arm. "Just tell me."**

 **"You have to take care of Mark for me."**

 **Sandra stepped away unconsciously. " _What_?"**

 **"Please. He needs someone who cares about him, someone he can trust." Donna's voice broke as she spoke the plaintive words. "You have to say you will."**

 **Sandra shook her head, unable to comprehend accepting such a responsibility. "Ms. McCormick, you can't – "**

 **"Donna. Just Donna."**

 **" – fine, Donna, you can't ask that of me. You don't even know me. Why would you even think I'd be willing to do that for you?"**

 **"You're a mother. And he's only fifteen. Please." Donna was openly crying now. The tears snaked off her cheeks, sliding into her hair. "I can't bear to think of what could happen to him when I'm gone. Please! Promise me you'll look after my boy."**

 **And even as Sandra continued to shake her head, she knew in her heart she had already agreed.**


	27. Chapter 27

_**Inheritance Tax**_ **by InitialLuv**

 **Chapter Twenty-Seven**

When Sandra paused in her recollection, a heavy silence fell. In the stillness, she could hear the unintelligible prayers of the other worshippers, sometimes punctuated by coughs or body movement. There was the loud thump of a kneeler being hinged back into place.

Mark was staring straight ahead, also conscious of what the quiet made noticeable. His tinnitus soared to the forefront almost out of nowhere. The fact that he only became perceptibly aware of it in sudden silences led him to wonder just when he'd grown accustomed to the annoyingly relentless background buzz.

"Mark?"

McCormick shook his head slightly, as if he could banish the ringing in his ears. He turned to Sandra.

"You lied to her."

Sandra was shaking her own head, a furrow between her beseeching eyes. "Mark – "

"You figured it didn't matter, right? You just had to humor her. She'd never know you lied." Mark directed his gaze ahead again, so Sandra couldn't see the barely restrained tears. "She was dead, what, two weeks later?"

"I didn't lie to her."

Mark let out a strained, humorless laugh. "Then you're lying to me, now." He glanced back sharply. "Did Hardcastle know this was what you were going to talk to me about?"

Sandra lifted a hand, tilting it back and forth. "Basically. I gave him the broad strokes."

"Yeah, you saved all the warm and fuzzy details for me." McCormick raised his hands to massage his temples. "Man, when I see him, he and I are gonna have a talk. I don't know what he was thinking, setting me up like this."

"He thought it was time I told you my side of things."

Mark leaned his head back to rest it against the hard edge of the pew, still rubbing his forehead. "I think I liked things the way they were."

"Us fighting constantly, unable to be in the same room together?"

"And how is you telling me all of this supposed to change that?" McCormick demanded. "So far all it's done is get me ticked at Hardcastle, and more ticked at you!"

"I haven't finished, Mark – "

"I don't want to hear any more!" Mark's voice shook, and he dropped his head, his hands moving to cover his face.

Sandra watched uneasily as the young man tried to compose himself. She reached out to tentatively touch his shoulder. He flinched at the contact.

"Are you all right?"

"No." The answer was muffled and bleak, and even though it was a single word, it made Sandra's heart hurt. _How can I get through the rest of this? How can he?_

Mark dug the heels of his palms into his eyes, rubbing desperately at the tears that had been threatening since the beginning of Sandra's story. He choked back a sob, then moved one hand to rub his nose with a sniffle. "Just give me a minute," he said.

"All right." Suddenly understanding how hard it was for Mark to look vulnerable in front of her, Sandra turned away to study the altar at the front of the church. She didn't want to leave the pew and the intimate feeling it gave to their normally antagonistic relationship, but she shifted aside, trying to give him as much space and privacy as was possible.

There were a few more stifled sobs, some loud sniffs, and a final shuddering sigh. It was roughly a minute before McCormick cleared his throat and lifted his head, saying, "I'm okay now." His voice was hoarse, but strong.

"Are you sure?" Sandra looked unconvinced as she regarded Mark's bloodshot, puffy eyes.

Mark made a face. "I want to get this over with. We should have been at the house by now. They're probably wondering what the he – heck happened to us." He looked around the church apologetically. "Boy, that's ingrained. Not supposed to swear in church."

"I think you broke that rule earlier."

McCormick threw his hands up impatiently. "I was provoked. Can we just get on with it?"

Sandra nodded, but then was silent. She clenched her hands again, rubbing them together as if for warmth. Her gaze settled on something, or someplace, far away.

"Sandra."

The woman looked up from her hands, but still seemed preoccupied. "Hmm?"

"It's okay. I can handle it."

Sandra drew an uneven breath. "What you said the other day, about how you thought I never gave you a chance?" Mark nodded. "You were on the right track, but it was a group effort.

"And you were part of the group."

Mark wiped absentmindedly at a stray tear. "What? What's that supposed to mean?"

Sandra looked candidly at the man. "From the moment your mother died, everything you did made it impossible for me to help you." Mark took a breath, but Sandra was on a roll now, and spoke over his truncated response. "You weren't in school. The hospital tried to call, the social worker came to find you, and you weren't there. Apparently you had been truant, but the school had been lenient with your absences because of the situation."

Mark was able to interrupt. "School had barely started. It's not like I missed much."

"That wasn't the point, Mark. It was the start of a pattern. When you finally got to the hospital, and hit the poor man, and then disappeared. . . There wasn't much I could do. I was just relieved you eventually made it to our house; at least I knew you were safe. But the police officer wasn't my idea. You can't fault the man for wanting backup, not knowing your emotional state. He was worried you might hit him again."

"I don't understand." McCormick tried to reconcile his dark memories of that day with Sandra's narrative.

"You do remember that, don't you?" Sandra realized Mark's recollection of the day's events might be vague, or even nonexistent. "You hit the social worker."

"I – No, I didn't. I hit some hospital employee. Like an orderly or someone."

"Someone like the social worker."

Mark stared at Sandra in shock. "No. Really?" When she simply nodded, he let out a quick breath. "You gotta be kidding me. No wonder the guy always acted like he was afraid of me."

"I tried to wait for you at the hospital, but I needed to be in the maternity ward, to attend to a patient. By the time I was able to talk to the social worker, you'd already been missing for at least two hours. I called Martina at home and told her what had happened, and she called me back around eight that night, letting me know you were all right. I had to tell the social worker where you were. It would have been unethical for me not to, Mark – I wasn't any relation to you, I had no custodial rights. . . And the hospital had already gotten in touch with your uncle. The social worker had everything arranged before Martina even called. With no one able to find you, decisions were made that were supposed to be 'in your best interest,' but now I know they were probably anything but."

"So, you're telling me," McCormick said slowly, "because I skipped school, slugged the social worker, and then wandered around the city for hours, that was the reason why I got sent to my uncle's? Was it supposed to be some kind of punishment, or something?"

Sandra reached out again, gently touching Mark's arm.

"We didn't know. You never told your mother. She would never have mentioned your uncle as a possible guardian if she knew."

"Marty knew. I told her that night."

Sandra sighed grimly. "I'm not sure what you told her, Mark. When she called me at the hospital she said you weren't making any sense. She said you told her you ran out of the hospital because you were afraid of someone, someone who wanted to hurt you. It was all she could do to make you stay at our house until I could get home. She said you really scared her. She thought if you were alone, you might hurt yourself."

Mark was frowning in confusion. "That's not what I remember . . . I mean, I don't remember saying that."

"You were probably in shock. You'd been running yourself ragged, barely sleeping, and then when your mother died, I think you had a minor breakdown. I know at the funeral you were still barely functioning."

"You came to her funeral? Was Marty there, too?"

Sandra gave the young man a sad smile. "Of course we were there." She could remember carefully watching Mark as he stood awkwardly by himself, away from what was left of his family. He'd been clad in a dark jacket that hung loosely on his slim frame, and he had been regarding the small group of mourners with a nervous suspicion. When she and Martina had approached him to pay their respects, Mark's returned embrace had been unsteady, and he had seemed incapable of maintaining eye contact. He had appeared lost, almost dazed, and his slack face had shown little recognition of the mother and daughter. He'd murmured "Thanksfercomin'" in a numb monotone, and then had wandered away. Sandra and Martina had been on their way home before the nurse had finally recognized a reason for Mark's unusual behavior: he'd reminded her of someone who had been medicated. The teenager's obvious grief had distracted her from thoughtfully considering his confusion, odd speech, and clumsiness. It all spoke of someone with a dose of Valium on board. The possibility had bothered Sandra, who personally could not see any good reason to drug a fifteen-year-old, outside of a hospital setting.

Mark's face paled as his frown deepened. "Those first few days after she died . . . they're just really a blur." If he thought back to that time period – which he tried not to do – he recalled existing in a cloud of uncontrollable anger and overwhelming depression. "I don't remember the funeral much at all. I know it was warm out. I was wearing an old suit coat of my uncle's, and I was really hot." One clear memory McCormick did have of that day was from after the funeral. Mark had returned the borrowed coat to his uncle, only to have the man shove it back at him, questioning the presence of a "new" tear in the liner. When Mark had said he thought that the liner had already been torn, his dear Uncle Douglas had slammed him against the wall, holding a strong arm across his nephew's neck, and had asked him to "think again." As he had valued breathing more than defending his innocence, Mark had quickly wheezed out a fabricated apology and confession.

And yet later that night he had decided maybe breathing was just too hard.

"I met your uncle. He. . . seemed fine. A little rough, not exactly mourning his sister, but there was nothing to imply that he was an abuser."

"No, he had to keep up his public image," McCormick said acidly. "Normal guy out in the community, son of a bitch at home." The curse was out and there was no remorse. Sandra didn't mention it either.

"I am so sorry, Mark."

"It was a long time ago." Mark waved off the woman's repentant words.

"But I convinced myself you were better off with him. Because he was family. And because I was scared. Scared of you, of what could happen. I didn't want to be responsible if you hurt someone, or hurt yourself. And I had Martina. I had to keep my daughter safe."

"You didn't want me around Marty because I was unstable."

"Yes."

"Okay." Mark swallowed. "I get that. I guess I kinda was." He'd also been angry, sad, scared, reckless, and lost.

The night after his mother's funeral, Mark had been awakened by aches in his heart and his head, the latter a byproduct of his uncle's preferred form of punishment. The Valium that his aunt had given him earlier had mostly worn off, but Mark had still been a little woozy and lethargic when he'd stumbled to the bathroom. Searching in the medicine cabinet for some aspirin, his fumbling hands had chanced upon his aunt's reserve supply of her little blue pills. The bottle had been nearly empty, containing just six tablets. With only a fleeting hesitation, Mark had heedlessly swallowed all six, theorizing that if ten milligrams of Valium had made him not care, 60 would make him not breathe. He'd often wondered – when enough time had passed and he was able to view the hopeless act as an aberration – what would have happened if the bottle had held more tablets, say twenty-five or thirty. And worse still, what would have happened if the pills he did take had been washed down with his uncle's beverage of choice, instead of with water from the bathroom tap.

His aunt had hovered over him for days following his failed suicide attempt. Mark had been eminently grateful for her unexpected vigilance, even as he understood that she did it out of guilt; not only was it her medication he'd attempted to overdose on, but she had also given him the initial behavior-altering dose. His aunt had scoured the house, finding two more of her "backup" bottles, and had placed them and her current prescription in a location unknown by Mark. She had even temporarily hidden away the sharpest objects in her kitchen. It wasn't until much later – when he came up from Florida for his uncle's funeral – that Mark had finally learned exactly how much he had terrified the woman.

The atmosphere in the funeral home had brought back Mark's scattered memories of his mother's funeral, and his almost tangible memories of his attempted overdose. His recollection of his suicide attempt had left him shaken and full of remorse, and when he'd gone to hug his aunt, he'd done so with true grief. Not for his uncle, but for what had been, and what _could_ have been. She'd clung to him, sobbing, and had pulled him aside into a small refreshment lounge. It was then that his aunt had taken his face in her shaking hands, and had struggled through her long-held regret. _"I thank God that you are standing here, Mark. Every day I thank Him that you're alive. That night was the worst of my life, worse than anything that ever happened with Douglas. When I found you, I was sure you were dead. I am so, so sorry you felt you had to make that choice, that we did that to you. That **I** did that to you, me and those damn pills. If you had died, I would never have forgiven myself." _

He'd avoided her after that, unable to handle the raw emotion. He'd also kept a distance from his cousin, who had noticed that every time her mother looked at Mark, she did so with fresh tears in her eyes.

McCormick could hear Sandra's voice in the background, sounding distant and echo-y. "And then you stole the car."

Mark was unable to respond, and he fought internally to get a grip. _This is why I can't tell Hardcase about this._ The memories that he had shunted aside when talking to the judge now refused to leave without a fight. His thoughts whirled back and forth around his mother's funeral, his uncle's visitation, his aunt's grief-stricken face, his own pain-filled eyes. He'd stared into the bathroom mirror that horrible night, studying his haunted reflection as he'd waited for the pills to kick in. He could still feel the cold porcelain of the sink, as he'd grasped on to the smooth surface in an effort to still his trembling hands. He could still remember sinking passively to the floor, feeling slightly giddy as the room tilted and spun. He could still recall his last coherent thought, considered with indifferent calm: _Shoulda left a note. Told 'em to bury me by mom._ Then his eyes had slid shut, in what he'd truly believed would be the last time.

The next thing he'd been aware of was a distant repetitive cracking sound, which had turned out to be his aunt frantically – and painfully – slapping his face. Her hysterics had eventually dragged him out of his stupor-like sleep, enough so that he'd been dimly aware of his uncle, watching from the bathroom doorway. When Mark had begun to vomit, needing to rely on his aunt to support his head over the toilet, his uncle had turned away with a disgusted curse. Then the man had said, in a voice loud enough to be heard over Mark's panting heaves, "If he pulls this shit again . . . let him."

Mark had spent the next day in a detached fog, fighting against the return of full consciousness. Because when the fog did clear, he had alternated between the humiliating shame of having attempted suicide, and the despairing grief of having failed.

"Mark, did you hear me?"

Mark was pulled into the present by Sandra's persistent call, and he thankfully surfaced from the swirling eddy of the past. "You said something about a car," he said, a little shakily.

"Yes." Sandra looked at him doubtfully, confused by his distraction and unsteady voice. "You stole a car."

"Yeah. Uh, 'borrowed'."

Sandra pierced the young man with a "don't pull that with me" look that was so similar to Hardcastle's glare that it prompted McCormick to instantly amend his pithy comment. "But I wasn't really planning on bringing it back." Mark was able to grin, although he was fairly sure it had a rictus quality. He didn't maintain it, letting his face relax. "How much did you know about that?" he asked apprehensively.

"I know you spent three months in juvenile hall, and then you were sent to a foster home."

"But I mean before the cops picked me up. Did you know I was at your place, that I tried to get Marty to go with me?"

The woman studied him seriously without speaking.

"Guess you didn't know everything, huh?" Mark shrugged. "But it wasn't anything you needed to be worried about. She turned me down flat. I didn't really think about it then, I was too hurt, but maybe she was scared. I mean, if she saw how bad I was after my mom died. . . It's one thing to hang out with me around town, but another thing to go on the run with me." He sighed, then muttered darkly, "I thought running was a heck of a lot better than the alternatives."

"Why didn't you tell anyone about your uncle?"

"I couldn't tell my mom. It was her brother." Mark said flatly. "And I didn't tell anyone else, because. . ." He looked at the floor, fighting the ache in his gut, the still-familiar pain of shame and worthlessness. "I didn't think anyone would care. I wasn't the only kid in school who got beat, and I didn't see anyone coming to rescue us." He snorted lightly. "And the idiot social worker sent me there. Though I didn't even stick around for a month – he never got a chance to visit and see how my new 'living situation' was going."

"If I had known you were being abused, I could have helped. I could have said something to the authorities, tried to keep you out of the juvenile center."

Mark lifted his head. "Wait. How do you know now? If I didn't tell my mom, and apparently I didn't really tell Marty. . . "

Sandra was just staring at Mark with misty eyes. McCormick was momentarily distracted by the change, unable to recognize this sympathetic, regretful person in front of him as the woman he had hated for nearly two decades.

 _Yeah, and you hated Hardcastle, too. Look what happened there. The man's probably the best friend you've ever had._

Hardcastle.

"Hardcastle told you."

Sandra's silence told him all he needed to know. "Boy, my past must've sure made some interesting after-dinner conversation," he grumbled.

"Don't get too angry with him. I'm glad he told me," Sandra admitted. "It helped explain some things, made me understand a little more about the choices you made. You were a victim of your environment. You didn't have a good example to follow."

"That's bull," McCormick answered, a little louder than he had planned. He looked guiltily toward the other people in the church. He lowered his voice. "I wasn't forced into the bad choices I made."

"So you don't think what happened with your uncle influenced you getting kicked out of the second foster home?"

When Mark's first foray into foster care had ended after barely two months, he'd been thrown back into the system. His second term with a foster family had been surprisingly tolerable, and three uneventful months had passed before his foster parents took in two other children, brothers who had been removed from an abusive father. The older of the new wards, a boy one year younger but twenty pounds heavier than Mark, had declared his dominance and superiority from the day he'd arrived. After enduring three weeks of random verbal and physical abuse – all out of the sight of any adults – Mark had finally cracked, attacking the bully with such explosive fury that the boy had ended up in the hospital. Mark had ended up back in juvie. It was only by the eventual, reluctant account from the younger brother – who had witnessed his sibling's unwarranted violence toward Mark – that Mark's second stay in juvenile detention was six months, rather than a year. After that, he was sent to a group home that was so chaotic and stressful, he'd almost missed the harsh structure of juvie.

"How do you know about that?" Mark demanded now, his voice rising again. "How do you know all of this?"

"I told your mother I'd watch out for you. Just because I wasn't in your life, it didn't mean I couldn't keep track of you. I used every connection I had, as far as I could without crossing any lines that would impact my job."

McCormick wondered with muted horror just how far Sandra's reach had extended. After just two weeks among the unpredictable and temperamental occupants of the group home, Mark's desperation had come to a head. His resulting behavior – intense mood-swings, agitated insomnia, and a tendency to pick fights – had been labeled as suicidal. He'd been forced to attend group therapy with other similarly-labeled teens, most of whom had either threatened or attempted suicide. One thing he'd indirectly learned from the sessions was that, outside of therapy, the other teens viewed their respective suicide attempts as competition, rewarding each other with "points" for the best story or the biggest scar. Mark's account of his failed overdose had been branded tame by his peers, and his attempt was treated with derision. Amelia Strang, a fourteen-year-old who had nearly died after ingesting a combination of Darvon and vodka, had reacted with disbelief after hearing his now year-old story. "What, you didn't even need to get your stomach pumped?" she'd said in scorn, apparently not impressed with his intent. "Yeah, knocked on his ass by a few benzos!" Jerome Benitti had chimed in. "What a loser!" Jerome, in deference to the still-healing wounds on his wrists, had been the current points leader. McCormick recalled staring at the unsightly marks, quietly thankful that his OD attempt had left no physical scars.

Mark closed his mind's eye on the disturbing image, and redirected his attention to Sandra.

The woman continued. "I even tried to help where I could. I talked to the new social worker, when you were about to get out of detention for the car theft, and I suggested a foster family for you. I thought it best that it be someone in a close enough neighborhood so you wouldn't have to change schools. . . plus, I knew the Wenzeks personally." She paused, then in a dry tone, added, "And apparently you got to know their daughter personally."

McCormick grinned before he caught himself, thinking of the "personal" relationship he'd had with Cyndy Wenzek. The girl, over a year older than him _and_ a much better student, had already been focusing on college, considering a double major of political science and psychology. "Cyndy kind of saw me as a psychological study," he said, forcing a more serious expression. "The more screwed-up I was, the more she was interested. When I got kicked out of her house for dating her, and ended up in the second home, she went out of her way to keep seeing me. She wasn't even put off when I got sent to juvie the second time." Mark smiled again, but this time it was in self-deprecating amusement. "Man, I had no clue. I was just amazed someone was paying attention to me like Marty had, I didn't really care why. But it wasn't all bad. We had some good times."

"I'm sure," Sandra murmured.

McCormick shot her a side-long glance. "I thought we weren't gonna do that. The digs and the sarcasm."

Sandra nodded soberly. "You're right. Please forgive me," she deadpanned.

Mark laughed shortly, but then he looked at Sandra with a bemused expression. "Hold on. I can understand you not wanting me around Marty after my mom died, because I was such a mess. Fine. But what about keeping us apart when she found out she was pregnant? What was your problem with me then?"

Sandra stood unexpectedly. "You're right, they must be wondering where we are." She lightly grasped Mark's right arm, bending to read his watch. "It's almost two-thirty. We really should get going."

"Oh, no you don't." Mark reached his left hand over and placed it on Sandra's hand, effectively trapping it between his hand and his right arm. "You sit back down and tell me what the heck is going on."

Sandra wrenched her hand out of McCormick's grip. "I'm going to the car." She stepped away from the pew before Mark could react, and was walking briskly down the aisle to the back exit by the time he had risen to his feet. He stared at her retreating back in quizzical astonishment.

"What the hell?" he murmured to himself. "Oh, damn it. Oh, _darn it_!"

Mark bowed penitently toward the crucifix in the front of the church. "Sorry," he whispered.

ooOoo

When McCormick slid into the passenger seat of the car, Sandra was sitting quietly behind the wheel, her hands in her lap. She had lowered her window to let some of the built-up heat escape from the car, but that seemed to be the total of her activity since exiting the church. She had yet to put the keys in the ignition.

Mark cranked his window down as well, propping his right arm on the sill. He felt a sudden fierce longing for the Coyote, and counted back in his head to the last time he'd driven his car, eventually deciding it had been Tuesday morning, when he'd gone to the bakery.

Five days ago? _Was that all?_ In that small space of time, it seemed he'd experienced a lifetime. In between sharing his past with Hardcastle and now this awkward reminiscing with Sandra, McCormick had the bizarre sensation of existing somewhere in between the grieving teenage hellion he'd been, and the ex-con law student _(– and father –)_ he now was. It was like he was watching the two halves of his personality from some kind of altered state, while still self-aware. The mature, intellectual Mark wanted to stay put in the vehicle, reasonably deducing that since he'd come this far, he might as well finish the race. As for the young, troubled Mark. . . he was ready to bolt. Especially if Sandra had any more disturbing stories in her repertoire. McCormick was worried he wouldn't be able to hold back the teenage Mark's wild emotions. At this time and in this place, he didn't feel strong enough to combat them.

He wasn't just homesick for the Coyote. He was homesick, period. He craved the privacy and the freedom of the gatehouse. He longed to hear the distant sound of the waves at night, lulling him to sleep. He missed the dichotomy of the quiet green estate and the bustling sprawl of the nearby city. He missed sitting on the patio in the evenings with Hardcase, drinking beer and discussing the day's events, whether they included rounding up bad guys or attending a lecture on tax law. He missed walking the long expanse of the nearby beach, with gulls circling over his head and beach-lounging neighbors nodding hello as he passed.

He missed trimming the damn hedges.

And he was suddenly very tired.

" _Mark_. Are you all right?"

He turned slowly to his left. "Huh? Yeah. Why?"

"I was calling your name." Sandra was looking at him steadily. "I think we should take a break. I know I need to, and you look done in. You just got out of the hospital, you shouldn't be tiring yourself."

"I don't think talking takes a lot of energy." McCormick rolled his eyes, but his heart wasn't in the debate. He took a deep breath, closing his eyes as he exhaled. "I don't know. I guess I am kinda beat. But I need to know, Sandra. I'm not dropping this."

"That's fine. But Martina is a part of this. You might understand it better if she explains it."

"Okay, I guess I can wait. It's not like I'm leaving tomorrow. I promised Livvie I'd stick around until Father's Day." Mark quirked a grin.

Sandra's steady gaze became a riveted stare. Feeling the eyes boring into him, McCormick rewound his words in his head. "What's wrong with that?" he asked, offense creeping into his voice. "It's only another week. And I am her father, I think I'm entitled to actually celebrate the fact."

"No, that's fine, that's not what. . ." The woman gave her head a quick shake. "'Livvie'?"

Mark's face was momentarily blank, and then he reddened in obvious embarrassment. "Did I say that out loud? I'm sorry, I know how you are with nicknames."

"I like it."

McCormick's face was still flushed, but the wide grin that appeared on it showed that he was well on his way to accepting this new, cordial relationship with the woman he had once despised.

Sandra started the vehicle, pulling away from the church. As the car picked up speed, Mark rested his head back against the head rest, feeling the wind rush through his hair. He closed his eyes and imagined he was in the Coyote.

Twenty minutes later, Sandra was jostling his shoulder. "Mark? Mark, wake up. We're home."

ooOoo

McCormick stepped out of the car stiffly, stretching and twisting to work the kinks out of his back. He reached in the back for his duffel bag, quickly unzipping it to shove the prescription bag inside, then followed Sandra to the back door. The two of them were barely inside the house when three individuals began to pepper them with questions.

Hardcastle: "What the hell took you so long?"

Martina: "Mom, we were starting to get worried!"

Olivia: "Grandma, you didn't get lost again, did you?"

Sandra swiveled her head between her two family members, attempting to answer both at the same time. Meanwhile, McCormick cocked his head at the judge, moving into the hallway and then waiting for the other man to join him. Once they were in a semi-private space, McCormick lit into his friend.

"You want to know what took so long? You know damn well what! It's one thing to tell me I need to hear Sandra's side, but you sure as hell didn't have to set me up to be ambushed!"

Mark had expected the judge to be contrite, or at least sympathetic to the younger man's dilemma. But if anything, Hardcastle defended his actions.

"Would you have talked to her, or listened to her, if you hadn't been forced to?"

"That's not the point, Judge!"

"That's exactly the point, McCormick!"

"Oh, stop it." Olivia stepped between the two men as if their heated argument was just so much hot air. She took Mark's arm, tugging him toward the family room. "Come here, I want to show you something."

McCormick took one last glance back at Hardcastle, and was exasperated to see the older man grinning at him. Then he turned his full attention to his daughter, and to where she was leading him.

Olivia entered the family room, released Mark's arm, and then went to stand near a small folding table. Upon the table were several photo albums and scrapbooks, as well as two overflowing shoe boxes and a number of legal-sized envelopes. There was also a small wooden storage crate that held at least eight VHS tapes.

Mark lowered his duffel bag to the floor, then moved toward the table. He stared down at the bounty with apprehension. He raised his head to see Olivia looking closely at him. When he didn't speak, she began to describe the jumble of items, pointing as she chattered.

"These are photo albums, from when I was a baby, up till this year. Um, scrapbooks from the same time, pretty much. Not as many scrapbooks. There's a lot of photo albums, Grandma's a real shutter-bug." The girl paused nervously, watching as Mark reached to touch the stack of photo albums.

"Um, the boxes and envelopes have things like report cards, programs from school plays, things that are too big to fit in a scrapbook, that kind of thing. And the tapes are home movies from like the past year or so. We got a camcorder the Christmas before last, and Mom sorta went nuts with it. She taped _everything_."

Mark still didn't speak. Suddenly overwhelmed, he looked for a place to sit and dropped down on the piano bench. Olivia moved around the table to stand near him, frowning dejectedly.

"It's too much, isn't it? Mom said it was too much, too fast."

Mark shrugged, then nodded. "Uh, maybe. I don't know. It's just. . . I can't do this for you. Even if I had anything comparable to this," he waved his hand at the table, "which I don't. But I can't be this open with you. Not yet, anyway." He looked sorrowfully at the girl. "I don't think I deserve all of this."

Olivia sat next to Mark on the piano bench. "You deserved to be able to see this in real life. Not just in pictures and video tapes. I wish I had more to share with you." She sighed sadly, then perked up slightly. "You know, we can go slow. You're gonna be here a while. We can do a year a day, maybe. If we start today, we'd finish up on Father's Day."

McCormick nodded with a smile. "That sounds like a plan."

"Good." Hardcastle had entered the room. "It'll give you something to do for a couple of hours." He jerked a hand in the direction of the driveway. "The ladies are taking me sight-seeing. We'll be back for dinner."

McCormick stood, disbelief wiping the smile from his face. "You're what? Where are you going? Isn't anyone gonna stay here?"

"Yeah, hotshot, you are."

Mark followed the judge out of the family room. "Wait, c'mon, you can't just all take off –" He watched hopelessly as Sandra waved while exiting the back door, then turned to Martina, who was reaching for her purse. "Marty, c'mon!"

Martina paused, taking Mark's hands and pulling him aside. "Milt, tell my mom I'll be right there," she directed at the judge. After sending a pointed look at McCormick, the older man also exited the back door.

Mark was clenching Martina's hands. "Marty, I don't know about this. I mean, I haven't actually been alone with her. You're never really alone in a hospital."

Martina pried her hands free, then lifted them to frame Mark's face. "Mark, calm down. This will be good for the two of you. You'll be fine. She's a nine-year-old girl – she doesn't bite."

McCormick cast his eyes in the direction of the family room, unable to move his head as Martina was still caressing his face. "I don't know. . . " he repeated. His voice trailed off as he became aware of Martina's tender touch. He turned his eyes back to look at her, and they widened at the open emotion on her face. She smiled warmly, moving her hands behind his head to twist her fingers in the curls at the nape of his neck.

This time there was no hesitation as Mark leaned in for the kiss. He raised his hands to rub Martina's shoulders, then felt his hands straying downward. He pulled her closer, simultaneously pushing her shirt up at the waist, to touch the bare skin on her back. She lowered her own hands, gently restraining his exploration, but did not break the kiss.

When Mark finally came up for air, he let his hands linger at Martina's waist, smiling slyly.

"Do you bite?" he asked huskily.

Martina pulled out of his embrace, slapping him on the shoulder in mock horror. " _Mark_!"

A horn beeped from the driveway. Martina quickly pulled her hands through her hair, adjusted her shirt, and grabbed her purse. She gave Mark one last, long, smoldering look, and then was gone. He stared at the space where she had been, still able to feel the soft lips on his mouth, the tantalizing fingers on his neck, the warm skin that had shivered under his hands.

A small cough came from behind him.

McCormick turned to see Olivia grinning at him in undisguised delight.


	28. Chapter 28

_**Author's Note:**_ I'm sorry it took so long to post another chapter. Tough time of year. Bowling league started, new television season started, football season started (Go Packers!). . . Plus, I read too much.

On a good (?) note, this story is reaching its end. Probably two or three more chapters. It needs another revelation, and an epilogue.

 **-ck**

* * *

 _ **Inheritance Tax**_ **by InitialLuv**

 **Chapter Twenty-Eight**

McCormick felt his face flush, wondering how much his daughter had witnessed, and heard. _Damn. I'm not used to having someone impressionable around._ Obviously Martina had been aware of their daughter's presence in the nearby room. That was apparent by the way she had redirected his wandering hands. He grinned slightly, remembering how his hands had moved almost of their own accord to the terrain that had been so familiar those many years ago. By the second month of his and Martina's summer romance, Mark had made his way around three bases, but neither teenager had yet felt comfortable with bringing in a run. _Only took another eight years_ , he thought, as his grin broadened.

Olivia was still gazing at him, and he reluctantly pulled out of the fervid memories. _Not now._ _ **Not**_ _appropriate._ He did his best to replace his leer with an innocent smile. He gestured toward the family room, with its mountain of keepsakes.

"So, what should we look at first?"

ooOoo

The next hour found them seated side-by-side on the love seat, a photo album on McCormick's lap and two more tucked in between the father and daughter.

Each photo was described to the best of Olivia's recollection. The older photos' descriptions were mainly from anecdotes during prior viewings. "I think maybe my mom or grandma would be better guides for these baby pictures," the girl admitted, as they pored over the early photographs. "I'm kinda guessing at some of these."

Mark turned a page of the album. As much as he was interested in the petite, pink-skinned baby in the photos, he was mesmerized by the shots that included Martina. In the posed photos, Martina was holding her daughter and beaming at the camera. In the candid photos, where Martina's hair was messy or her clothes stained or mismatched, the young woman was still radiant in the glow of early motherhood. Just seeing her image, so soon after their heated kiss, caused Mark's mouth to go dry and his palms to get clammy.

McCormick realized he'd been staring at the same page in the photo album for over a minute, without any protest from Olivia. He glanced at her self-consciously, only to see that she was smiling, a knowing look on her young features. In that moment she didn't look like him at all – that shrewd expression was pure Sandra.

"Why are you looking at me like that?"

"No reason." Innocent. The face cleared to match the tone.

Mark leaned back, closing the photo album. "All right, I think you're jumping the gun here. Yeah, your mom and I kissed. But that doesn't mean anything."

"That's not what it looked like."

He stared at her, humiliation causing the heat to again rise in his face. "What do you know about it? You're nine!"

"I'm not blind. Or stupid."

"I didn't say that, Livvie, I just think you need to slow down, okay? Pretty soon you'll be setting up some pretend romantic restaurant scene to get me and your mom to fall in love, like we're in _The_ _Parent Trap_."

Olivia stared at him, perplexed. He waved a hand weakly. "Old movie. Twins get separated as babies when their parents get divorced, then they meet at camp and switch places – "

"I know. I've seen it. You called me Livvie."

"Oh, that." McCormick smiled. "Yeah. I just thought I should have a special nickname for you. 'Kiddo' is gonna get confusing, since that's what the judge calls me. And you didn't seem too keen on me calling you 'Rivera.'"

The girl looked down at her bare knees, poking out from the hem of her shorts. She seemed contemplative. Mark took a breath. "It's okay if I call you Livvie, isn't it?"

Olivia lifted her head, meeting her father's eyes.

"Can I call you 'Dad'?

A different type of warmth came over McCormick, starting in his chest and filling his entire soul. The photo album slid off his lap as he pulled his daughter into an elated embrace.

"Heck, _yeah._ "

ooOoo

Olivia had awkwardly accepted the hug, and recognizing her stiffness, McCormick had cautiously pulled back. The girl soon begged off to scrounge for a snack, leaving Mark to wonder if he had done something wrong.

When she left for the kitchen, Mark picked up the fallen photo album, and placed it and the two others back on the table. He stood and stretched, winced at the slight catch in his right side, and hoped it wouldn't advance to the point that he would need a painkiller. He was definitely avoiding aspirin now, but that raised another dilemma. If he had to ask Sandra or Martina if they had an aspirin alternative in their medicine cabinet, or if he asked the judge to stop at a drugstore so he could buy something, he knew he'd get worried looks and pointed questions. He wondered how long it would take for his disease to transition from a thing that elicited sorrowful sympathy to a thing that was just a part of who he now was. Still Mark McCormick: an ex-con, an ex-race car driver, a law student . . . He just had to watch what he ate, take his pills, and see his doctor more regularly.

Oh, and try to not get kicked in the kidneys by any bad guys. He smirked. _Hmmp._

Mark wandered over to the piano. He raised the fallboard to expose the keys, and stared down at them with the same wary expression he had recently given the table of mementos. Sitting on the bench, he lifted both hands and placed them on the keys in an arched position. He closed his eyes, trying to remember what he had been taught, decades before.

" _You hear that, Markie? That's a D. Like your momma. 'D' for Donna."_

Hearing Olivia return from the kitchen, he quickly removed his hands from the keyboard. He turned on the bench to face her. She had a small bowl of what looked like mashed potatoes, and was carrying a banana. When she reached Mark, she placed the banana on the top of the piano, at his eye level.

He looked at the fruit with a questioning expression. "You started the antibiotic pills, right?" she asked.

"No – Well, I just picked them up. I'll take one with my other pills, around dinner." _I'm gonna have to get one of those damn pill organizers._ "Why?"

She indicated the banana. "You'll thank me later."

McCormick was about to ask when the girl continued. "My grandma calls it the BRAT diet – you know, bananas, rice, applesauce, and toast? The antibiotic pills usually make me sick for a day or two, and the BRAT diet is all I can handle." Still standing, she lifted a spoonful of food to her mouth, and swallowed before she went on. "Once I'm no longer in the bathroom every couple of hours, I can eat normal again." She frowned. "At least, as normal as my grandma lets me. She's really on a health kick since I got diagnosed." She held out her bowl under McCormick's eyes. "See?"

He shrugged. "What's wrong with mashed potatoes?"

Olivia gave him an aggrieved expression. "Nothing's wrong with mashed potatoes. Oh, and with butter. . . I _love_ mashed potatoes. This is mashed cauliflower."

Mark's expression mirrored Olivia's. "That's – just not right. What's for supper, blended broccoli?"

Olivia had taken another bite, and she laughed, putting her hand over her mouth to keep the food in.

Making short work of the snack, she set the bowl on the piano, near the banana. Olivia sat next to Mark on the bench, facing the keyboard. Mark twisted around again so they were both facing the same direction. Olivia tilted her eyes up, giving him a sidelong glance.

"Can you play?"

He shook his head quickly. "No. I thought the judge told you that." He looked downward, returning the glance. "But I heard you can play. I don't suppose you'd play me something."

Olivia didn't respond. She leaned back, nibbling at her lips as she thought. "No. . ." she finally answered, " _we'll_ play something."

"I told you, I can't play – "

The girl waved him off. "This'll be easy. The same finger placement, repeating notes." She pointed to a section of the keyboard. "Put your left hand here."

"I'm right-handed."

Olivia sighed impatiently. "It's the left-hand pattern. If you're going to learn, you're going to do it right." When Mark opened his mouth to contradict her, Olivia predicted his response. "I mean, _correctly_."

Once Mark had his hand in the correct position, Olivia placed her smaller one to the right of it. "Okay, I want you to watch my fingers, and do the same thing, but on your keys." She proceeded to play the bass hand notes of "Stand By Me."

McCormick looked at the nimble fingers in awe. Glancing up from the keyboard, the girl admonished, "You're not following. You're supposed to copy me." She started over, playing slowly, placing each finger precisely. Mark watched closely, trying to follow along.

As Olivia hit the keys, she began to sing out their notes, to the tune of the intro. "F, F, C-E, F, F. . ."

Mark's fingers halted. Olivia drew her hand back, studying him carefully. "What's wrong?"

"I'm not gonna remember the notes." He shrugged despondently.

The cautious expression on Olivia's face gave way to affectionate annoyance. "Well, not with that attitude," she chided him playfully.

McCormick breathed in, feeling a pang in his chest that he couldn't readily describe. This girl amazed him. Intelligent, gentle, funny, talented, empathic, stubborn, confident. And she was _his_. He recalled his earlier statement, when first seeing the table she had waiting for him: _"I don't think I deserve all of this."_ He didn't feel deserving of her.

Especially knowing he eventually would have to leave her.

He exhaled, then nodded at his daughter. "Okay," he said, resolute. "Tell me the notes."

After mirroring Olivia's fingers and plinking out the bass hand notes several times, Mark felt more secure playing on his own. Seeing his confidence, Olivia began to pick up the chord melody of the song. Disrupted by the addition, Mark lost his place. "Damn it," he muttered, starting over.

Olivia slowed her normally fluid playing to match her father's tentative speed, and the song began to take shape. Choppy at first, then recognizable, then almost competent. Olivia began to hum along under her breath, not wanting to sing and throw Mark off his playing. She was surprised, then, when Mark began to sing.

"When the night has come,

And the land is dark,

And the moon is the only light we'll see.

Oh, I won't be afraid, no, I won't be afraid

Just as long as you stand, stand by me."

Olivia joined in for the chorus, her voice softly accompanying her father's tenor. Then she stopped playing, abandoning the second verse. Mark stopped as well, leaning back on the piano bench and dropping his hands into his lap.

"You said you couldn't sing." Olivia's voice was challenging, almost accusing.

"I said I couldn't play piano. Everybody can sing."

"No," Olivia said seriously, "not my grandma. And, no – it was the judge. He said you couldn't sing. Why would he say that? You . . . you're good."

Mark grinned. "Prison glee club."

He'd said it without thinking. Just a joke, a quick aside, something he'd say to Hardcastle to ease a tense moment. He panicked, unsure of how to rectify the slip.

"What I meant – when I say that – what I meant to say – " He realized he was restlessly waving his hands, and forced them back into his lap. He lapsed into a nervous silence.

Olivia reached out a hand, resting it lightly on his arm. She had barely touched him when he abruptly rose from the bench, leaving the room without looking back.

ooOoo

She found him sitting at the dining room table, staring at the cheery centerpiece of fake wildflowers in a small tin watering can. He had his elbows on the table, and was placing his hands against his ears, covering them briefly, then releasing them.

She pulled out a chair beside him, and didn't miss the tiny jerk he made, as if to move away from her.

"Are you okay?" She also kept her eyes on the centerpiece.

"Sure." He cleared his throat. "Why wouldn't I be?"

"I don't know. You just . . . seem sad." Looking at him as she spoke, Olivia thought that maybe that wasn't quite correct. It was more like scared.

"Just tired." And he was. Even after the short nap in the car, he could feel exhaustion pulling at him. He sighed, then looked at Olivia with a frown. "Hey. Your mom said you weren't feeling well today, that you were tired. Are _you_ okay?"

Olivia debated between giving him an answer, or congratulating him on the deft change of subject. The genuine concern on his face did her in. "I'm fine. I just get tired sometimes. So I slept in today, and just hung around the house." When she saw her father's frown hadn't changed, she said defensively, "I didn't even have a temperature."

"Does that happen a lot?" Momentarily forgetting his own weariness, Mark straightened in his chair. "I mean, you getting tired, having to take it easy?"

She shrugged. "Sometimes. I mean, that's one of the reasons we were trying to figure out what was wrong with me. Before we knew it was PKD. I was tired a lot, and didn't have any energy. I just wanted to sleep or lie around." She reached out for the centerpiece, drawing it closer, and began to rearrange the plastic flowers. "My doctor said it's mostly the high blood pressure, but I also have mild anemia, so that makes it worse. I'm on pills for them both, I have been for a few weeks. But my grandma and my mom don't think they're helping enough . . . Well, Grandma thinks my dosage just needs to be adjusted – my doctor said that's not unusual when someone starts on a new medication. But my mom, she worries a lot." The girl sent Mark a knowing look. "Mom called the clinic this morning, but they're only open until noon on Saturdays, so she just made an appointment. I'm gonna see my doctor on Tuesday."

McCormick absorbed the matter-of-fact explanation with a slowly growing anger _. I specifically asked Marty to tell me if something was wrong with the kid, and she just shined me on!_ He pushed away from the table, rising to – well, he didn't know what. Pace, rant, hit something. Except a debilitating sense of vertigo came out of nowhere, and he had to grab on to the back of the nearest chair just to stay upright. The room began to rotate.

"Mark? _Mark_!" Olivia jumped out of her own chair, rushing to his aid. "Sit down!" She all but pushed him back into a sitting position. "Put your head down," she directed. He complied, somewhat disoriented. He lost a small space of time; suddenly the girl was holding out a glass of orange juice, again calling his name. She took one of his hands and rested the glass against it. "Drink this."

He grasped the glass, and was dismayed to see his hand shaking. Afraid he would drop the juice glass, he wrapped both hands around it before attempting to drink. After a small sip, he grimaced. "Ugh. Pulp."

"Too bad. Finish that." Olivia was perched on the edge of a chair, apprehensively regarding her father.

Mark drank tentatively, feeling vaguely nauseous and not wanting to tempt fate. After a few more sips, the nausea reduced, and was suddenly replaced with an almost ravenous hunger. "I don't suppose you'd want to grab that banana for me?" he asked the girl hopefully.

"No. An apple is better." She was again on her feet, returning to his side with a sandwich bag containing apple slices. She placed the bag on the table in front of McCormick. "Eat these."

"What is this, _Alice in Wonderland_? 'Drink this'? 'Eat this'?"

She shook her head at his remark, but her unease overshadowed her appreciation of his humor. "Just eat them. Somebody should. My grandma cuts up an apple for me every day, and I'm getting sick of them." Picking up the small bag, Olivia waved it in front of his face. "Here."

Mark obediently reached out for the sandwich bag, but was unable to produce the fine motor skill needed to undo the seal. Olivia took the bag from his trembling hands, quickly opened it, and then handed it back.

The two sat quietly as McCormick varied between nibbling on the apples, and sipping the juice. He gradually felt the hunger back off, but the lightheaded feeling was more stubborn. He dropped his head to the table with a groan.

"When did you eat last?"

Mark turned his head to the side to cast one eye at Olivia. "What, before this? Lunch. At the hospital."

Olivia checked the clock, calculated the hours, then exhaled shortly. "So that was like four hours ago, maybe more?

"Prob'ly." He closed his eyes as an unexpected pain pierced his head.

"Didn't a dietitian talk to you?" Olivia's voice had taken on a brisk, almost lecturing tone. "Mine told me I have to eat different now, with the PKD and the meds I'm on – I bet they told you the same thing, huh?"

Mark grunted an affirmative response.

"Yeah, see? You need to eat more often, like have healthy snacks, or do the small meal thing, okay? Like five little meals, instead of three big ones. I bet you're having a low blood sugar attack." Olivia shook her head again. "You should have eaten the banana."

Mark didn't reply; he kept his eyes shut, and his head on the table. Olivia leaned forward, her stomach twisting with sudden fear.

"Mark?"

No answer.

"Mark? _Dad_?"

McCormick grinned. He opened his eyes to look at his relieved, but now irritated, daughter.

"You think you can get me another glass of juice?"

ooOoo

Mark had eaten most of the apple slices, and was finishing his second glass of juice, when he and Olivia heard Sandra's car pull up in the driveway. Both the girl and the man looked at the rear doorway in expectation.

"You don't have to mention this right away."

Olivia turned her gaze to her father, staring at him with wide, confused eyes. "What do you mean? You don't want me to say anything about what happened?"

He spread his hands in a pleading gesture. "I feel better now _. Really_."

Olivia huffed. "Well, I hate to tell you, but you still look pretty crappy. I think they'll figure it out. Wanna bet who notices it first?" She grinned. "Bet you a buck it will be my mom."

"I'll take that bet." He grinned back. "Hardcastle's got a 'McCormick's in trouble' setting. It's probably already beeping."

The sight-seeing trio was now entering through the back door, conversing amiably. Mark did his best to retain a look of healthy innocence, and smiled a greeting at the returning adults. "How were the sights?" he asked. "Did any horsemen throw pumpkins at you?"

Hardcastle edged away from Martina and Sandra, pausing in front of the chair where Mark sat. He scanned the items on the table, looked briefly at Olivia, and then grumped, "Okay, what's wrong?"

Olivia stood up. "Shoot." She left the table, to go down the hall toward her room.

Martina and Sandra were now also looking at Mark inquisitively. Martina sat down in the chair Olivia had just vacated, and carefully regarded Mark. "You look pale. Are you all right?"

Sandra came up alongside the judge, and hearing her daughter's question, she also studied McCormick. Her hand was on his forehead before he realized it, and he jerked back, embarrassed. "I'm fine!"

Milt cut his eyes at Sandra. "He only says that when he's sick."

"C'mon, for Pete's sake – " McCormick broke off as Olivia reentered the room. She held a crumpled one-dollar bill in her hand.

"I think you cheated, though," the girl said, as she held out the bill to her father. "I bet he only noticed you first because you made a joke."

Hardcastle watched the familiar transaction silently. He felt a strange sensation in his chest that he was quick to shrug off as indigestion, even though somewhere in the back of his mind he recognized it as jealousy.

"What was that all about?" he asked roughly, glaring as McCormick pocketed the bill.

"Nothing, Judge." The father and daughter held matching looks of innocence. Neither Milt nor Martina were having any of it. They returned identical looks of expectant impatience. Olivia's innocent expression began to wane, and she fidgeted nervously. "Livvie. . ." Mark murmured, seeing that she was about to crack. "Settle down."

The words came out in a rush. "We were just betting who would ask first. You know, about what was wrong." The girl shrugged at McCormick, who was staring at her in disappointment. "I told you before, I don't lie." After a beat, she added, "A lot."

Milt snorted a laugh. "You sure you're his kid?"

"That's enough of that," Sandra cut in. "What is wrong? Mark, what happened?"

McCormick surveyed the three adults now regarding him with that sympathetic look. _Damn. So much for a normal life._

"It's not a big deal. I had a little dizzy spell."

"Try almost passed out," Olivia corrected. Mark slowly shook his head at her, his look of disappointment morphing into frustrated anger. His daughter glared back at him. "Be mad at me! I don't care! As long as you take care of yourself!" Olivia breathed in shakily, then quickly left the room. This time when she went to her bedroom, she slammed the door behind her.

McCormick was again the target of inspection. "Mark, is she right?" Martina asked, reaching to place a hand on his arm. She looked up at her mother. "Mom, I thought you were getting the thermometer."

Sandra shook her head. "He didn't feel warm." She looked down at the table, at the remains of the apples and the juice, and then addressed Mark. "Tell me exactly what happened."

"I was fine. I am fine. Tired, that's all." Even as he said it, in the calmest, most reassuring tone he could muster, he was able to see his white lie wasn't getting any takers _. Damn, this is too much truth-telling for one day._ He heaved a weary sigh. He really _was_ tired.

"Okay. I _was_ fine, I'm not lying about that. We were looking at the photo albums and stuff, we spent most of the time doing that. Then I needed a break, so I came in here to sit down." At the mention of needing a break, Mark saw both Martina and Hardcastle nod in quiet understanding. He was mildly amused that they both seemed to know him so well.

"Olivia came to check on me, to make sure I was okay, and then we ended up talking about how she has a doctor's appointment on Tuesday." McCormick looked accusingly at Martina. "You didn't tell me about that."

Martina dipped her head in affirmation, but wouldn't meet his eyes.

"Why didn't you tell me, Marty? I asked you if she was all right!"

"Mark, you can talk to Martina about that later," Sandra said. "You're avoiding the issue."

"The issue is trust, right? Lies? She lied to me!"

"I didn't – not when I talked to you this morning." Martina was looking in Mark's eyes now, and she again rested a hand on his arm. "I didn't call Olivia's doctor until later, after we talked on the phone."

"Yeah, well I bet it wasn't some sudden thing. I'm sure you knew you were gonna call."

"McCormick!" Mark jumped slightly at the judge's shout. The older man was scowling at him. "Drop it," he ordered. "Knock off the act and tell us what happened."

"Not an act," McCormick grumbled, but he grudgingly continued. "When Olivia told me that, about needing to see her doctor, I got a little peeved. I stood up, probably a little too fast, and got hit with a bad dizzy spell. And maybe I lost a minute or two." He shifted nervously in the chair, and scanned the concerned eyes aimed at him. He settled his gaze on Sandra, and spoke directly to her. "One minute I was holding on to the chair, thinking I was going to fall over, and then I was sitting down again, and Olivia was next to me with a glass of juice. I might've blacked out for a few seconds. I don't know."

There was a brief silence. McCormick adjusted his position again, and when he began speaking his voice was quiet, but firm. "I'm really okay now. I drank something, got a little food in me. That really helped. Olivia said something about low blood sugar? I don't know, I thought that was a diabetic thing. . . I think I'm just worn out. God knows why, I got enough sleep in the hospital."

Sandra pulled out a chair, sitting down to face Mark. "Did you take any of your meds right before it happened?"

"No. . . I got my morning dose at the hospital. I usually take the second dose around dinner. The pharmacist said I should start the antibiotic then, too." Mark checked his watch. "Guess I could take them now."

"No, that's not what I meant," Sandra said. "I mean, yes, you should, but I wanted to know if your reaction was from recently taking your pills." She looked at him critically. "Did you feel better after drinking the juice?"

"A little. I didn't feel like I was going to pass out anymore, but I was still pretty shaky. And then it felt like I was starving. Olivia shared her daily snack with me." He gestured at the sandwich bag with its few remaining apple slices.

Sandra rubbed her mouth lightly, looking thoughtful. "I think you may have had a hypoglycemic episode. You can have them even if you're not diabetic. Certain medications can trigger them, they can happen if you haven't eaten in a long time - "

"I ate lunch. Before I left the hospital."

Sandra waved off his interruption. "That was at least five hours ago, now. When did this happen?"

Mark shrugged. "A half hour ago, maybe more."

You can't wait that long between eating – you need to eat more often."

"He needs to eat _more_?" Hardcastle had moved behind Sandra's chair. "That shouldn't be a problem," he scoffed.

Sandra turned around, looking at the man with a slight smile. "Not _more_ , more often. It's better that he eat several small meals a day, or three small meals with substantial healthy snacks in between." She turned back to Mark. "I know that's what the dietitian would have suggested, so it had to be on the information she gave you."

"Haven't had a chance to read all the paperwork yet," McCormick mumbled at the table top.

"You need to read it," Sandra advised soberly. "Another thing that could cause low blood sugar issues is kidney problems. This is important, Mark. You have to take responsibility for your health. You need to talk to your doctor about what happened."

"What? Wait, no. I just got out of the damn hospital!"

"I'm not saying you have to call him this minute," Sandra clarified. "I think Monday will be fine. And hopefully you'll find out it was just an isolated event. "

"I don't like it," Martina said. "What if he had been alone when it happened? Or God forbid, driving a car?"

McCormick again dropped his head to table, closing his eyes. Martina quickly moved closer to him, leaving her chair to kneel at his side. "Mark? Are you okay?"

Hardcastle snorted. "He's fine. He's just pouting."

Mark's voice was muffled as he spoke into the table. "I'm not pouting." He lifted his head, looking up dejectedly. "I'm just tired of this, all of this. I'm just . . . _tired_."

Sandra smiled sympathetically at the young man. "That's obvious. You need to get some real, restful sleep. It might have felt like all you did was sleep in the hospital, but I'd bet a lot of that was interrupted?"

McCormick nodded. "I guess."

"So this is what you're going to do." Sandra rose from her chair. "You're going to take your pills, eat dinner with us, and then head to the hotel and sleep for at least eight hours. Preferably more. Either way, I don't want to see you back here until tomorrow afternoon." She left the table to begin puttering around the kitchen area, pulling bowls and dishes and ingredients together.

Mark stared, momentarily too stunned to speak. When he found his voice, it came out as a pleading whine. "Tomorrow after _noon_?" He looked at Martina, still at his side. " _Marr-teee?_ "

"Oh, for the love of –" Hardcastle gestured at his friend in exasperation. "Listen to you, you sound ridiculous. Sandra's right, and you're gonna do as she says. Now where's your pills?"

"In my bag," McCormick sighed, "in the family room."

The judge retrieved the duffel bag, bringing it back into the kitchen to drop it on the chair closest to the younger man. Mark glared at him. Martina took Mark's glass, rinsing it and refilling it with water. She replaced it in front of Mark. He glared at her, too.

Milt fought back a grin. "Knock off the pouting. You're setting a bad example for your kid."

McCormick dug into the duffel bag, pulling out prescription bottles. "She's not even here," he muttered. "She's in her room."

"No, I'm not."

Olivia stood in the hallway near the entrance to the dining area. She inched forward, casting an appraising eye at her father, but didn't quite step over the threshold.

Sandra turned from the kitchen counter, wiping flour from her hands. "Are you done moping?" she asked her granddaughter.

Olivia shot a glare at the older woman. The judge jabbed Mark with an elbow, then jutted his chin out at the girl. "Forget what I said before," he said quietly. "Definitely your kid."

Olivia turned to glower briefly at the two men, prompting both to smile at her in return. Frustrated, Olivia looked to her mother. "Is he okay?" she asked, nodding at Mark.

Sandra answered before her daughter had a chance. "He should be fine. We talked about what happened, and he's going to call his doctor on Monday. Everything's taken care of."

Olivia sighed, but still seemed tense. She looked at Mark. "You have to stop doing that. Making me worry."

"Get used to it, kid," Hardcastle said. Mark sent him a look nearly identical to Olivia's recent glare. He was rewarded with a shrug and a grin. Shaking his head at the older man, Mark addressed his daughter.

"I'm sorry, Livvie. Really."

Olivia's expression immediately softened. She came quickly to the table, wrapping her arms around her father in an appreciative embrace. Then, pulling away as fast as she had approached, she called to Sandra. "Grandma? Do you want any help?"

Mark watched in silence as the girl began to assist her grandmother in preparing dinner. He was still slightly shaken by the sudden hug, and just as sudden release. He was reminded of how awkward they'd both felt when he'd hugged her after the _"Can I call you Dad?"_ inquiry. He wondered if their forced separation was to blame for these stilted demonstrations of physical affection. _I get enough of that porcupine response from Hardcastle,_ he thought sadly.

The porcupine in question was jabbing him again. "Are you gonna swallow those pills or take them by osmosis?"

McCormick looked down, seeing he was still holding the pills he'd been about to take when Olivia had returned. "Funny, Judge." He tossed the pills in his mouth, following them with a long drink of water. "I'm surprised you know what osmosis means," he said.

"Sure I do. And I know what recalcitrant, irksome nudnik means, too."

McCormick stared at the older man, nonplussed. From the kitchen area, he heard his daughter's voice pipe up.

"Obstinate irritating pain in the neck!"

Martina began to laugh, and Hardcastle's face spread in a wide grin.

"Got it in one!" the judge cheered.

* * *

 ** _Author's Notes:_** Discerning readers will recognize the joke in McCormick referencing the movie **_"The Parent Trap."_ ** In the original 1961 version, the role of the father (Mitch Evers) is played by Brian Keith.

The song McCormick sings is "Stand By Me" (1961), written by Ben E. King, Jerry Leiber and Mike Stoller.

 **-ck**


	29. Chapter 29

_**Inheritance Tax**_ **b** **y InitialLuv** _ **  
**_

 **Chapter Twenty-Nine**

Even though it was barely past eight p.m., McCormick fell asleep during the half-hour car ride again, this time as the judge drove the rental car back to the hotel in White Plains. Hardcastle had to practically drag the kid upstairs to the room, and when he pointed to the correct bed, McCormick sunk down on the mattress. The kid kicked off his sneakers and lay down on top of the sheets, grabbing at a pillow.

"Get offa there," Hardcastle grumbled. He swatted at McCormick's arm. "Pull back the covers, at least."

Mark rolled ungainly off the bed, mumbling unintelligibly. He knelt by the bed, dragged the covers aside just enough, and then crawled back in.

"You're gonna sleep in your clothes?"

McCormick snuggled in. "G'night, Judge."

Hardcastle stood, arms crossed, scowling down at the younger man. He was about to deliver another direction to at least take off his pants, when he heard a snore come from the fully-clothed form in the bed. Milt's face softened.

"Good night, kiddo."

ooOoo

After watching the TV with the volume low (yet loud enough to be heard over the kid's snores), Milt finally turned in himself around eleven. Less than two hours later, he was awakened by noises in the bathroom. He dozed for a few minutes, then realized a light was on in the room. He rolled over to see Mark sitting at the small table in the room, reading over his hospital paperwork.

"What're you doing up?" Hardcastle asked.

McCormick jerked, then looked over at the judge. "I didn't mean to wake you up. Sorry."

Milt squinted at the clock on the table between the two beds. "It's twelve-twenty. That's not even half of the eight hours, sport."

Mark nodded grimly. "I've been up for a while. Damn antibiotics."

The judge half-rose from his bed. "You okay?"

"I will be. Just gotta watch what I eat for a few days." McCormick leaned back in the chair. "Well, gotta watch what I eat the rest of my life, actually." He gestured at the papers.

Hardcastle watched a despondent look come over the young features. He sighed, then pushed aside his covers and clambered out of bed. McCormick sent him a worried glance. "You don't have to get up, Judge. I said I'm okay."

Not answering, the judge moved over to the table. "Give me," he directed. After a pause, McCormick silently handed over the paperwork he'd received from the dietitian.

After reading for a few minutes, Hardcastle lifted his head. "This isn't so bad."

"Are you kidding?" McCormick grabbed the papers back, beginning to read aloud. 'Limit alcohol intake.' 'Reduce consumption of salty foods.' 'Avoid caffeine.' No caffeine?!"

"So we'll drink decaf."

" _Decaf_?" Mark repeated incredulously. "In between busting bad guys and doing stuff around the estate, I live on coffee to get through my classes. Sometimes when I'm studying, it's the only way I can stay awake."

"Yeah. . ." Hardcastle rubbed his chin. "That's something else. You know you can't do that anymore."

Mark stared at the judge. "Which part?" he asked uneasily.

"Well, you know," Milt said, vaguely waving a hand. "Charlie said it wouldn't be a good idea to be chasing down the bad guys anymore. In case something happens. And you know we'd already been tapering off."

"Okay, tapering off, but not quitting altogether!" McCormick tossed the paperwork on the table. "You think those guys in your files care if I've suddenly got some stupid kidney disease? Do you think they're gonna stop embezzling and running guns and dealing drugs and killing people?"

"I didn't say that! But I knew we couldn't do this forever, and you had to know that, too. Why do you think you're in law school? So we can get the guys on the other side, without having to having to worry about dodging bullets – and without you doing your damnedest to end up back in prison with those crazy 'second story' jobs you pull."

"Sometimes the 'other side' isn't good enough, Judge! That's why you started your whole Lone Ranger routine," Mark shot back stubbornly. "I can't believe you'd just drop it, when you know how good it works."

"Yeah, it worked real good with Falcon and Price, didn't it? Worked so good you almost died."

McCormick looked away, uncomfortable with the judge's blunt reference his near demise. "We got them," he murmured.

"Well, if I'd lost you in the process, it wouldn't have been worth it." Before McCormick could respond to the unusually candid remark, the judge went on. "And what would happen if you got hurt again? Now that you're sick?"

"I'd be careful."

Hardcastle gave a short laugh. "If you can't work on my truck without falling on your rear out on the driveway, how am I supposed to believe you wouldn't take unnecessary risks if you keep playing Tonto?" He shook his head. "No, it's not gonna happen. Maybe I can't convince you to lay off chasing bad guys to concentrate on your law career, but you've got an even better reason now. You have to make sure you're there for your kid."

McCormick sighed deeply, slumping in the chair. He stared at the table without speaking. Hardcastle watched him, waiting.

"I don't know how to do this, Judge," Mark finally said, speaking quietly.

"What do you mean?" Milt answered, equally quiet. "Do what?"

"I just – I don't know what to think anymore. I had a plan, I had a future. And I've never really had one before, not one I could rely on. Even when I was racing, and when I was doing good, I knew I was only one crash away from losing it all." He paused, looking thoughtful. "I know a lot of guys who make their living racing, and it doesn't stop them from having families and plans . . . but you know they're just waiting for the day when they're financially secure enough that they can hang up their helmets and live a normal, long life."

"You think that? I thought you told me before that racing's in the blood, that it's not something you can just forget. That racers thrive on the adrenaline and the risk."

"I also said that racing was an intelligent, precise sport. Figure you'd think it was all about the risk." McCormick made a face. "But yeah, you're right, that's part of it. It was for me – well, it used to be. I don't know. I'm different now."

"You can say that again."

"Judge, knock it off, this is hard, okay?"

"Sorry."

Mark nodded, accepting the apology. "What I was saying is maybe when that's all you have, all you're interested in, it's fine. You know, to make your living racing. But I found something else. It started with nabbing the bad guys with you, and now it's law school, and maybe being an attorney. Racing's not the only option anymore. And that made me feel really lucky. That I had something else to plan for, something normal that I could look forward to, and feel proud about.

"And now that's all changed."

"Why? Because you're sick? That doesn't have to change your life. Okay, yeah, it changes some things, but not the big things. You can still finish law school, you can still be an attorney, if that's what you want. As long as you take care of yourself and don't do anything stupid."

"I know that. Well, sometimes. And other times I just feel lost. And angry. Thinking about what's been taken from me." McCormick sighed. "Maybe I need to talk to somebody, like Olivia does."

"What, like a psychiatrist?"

"Yeah. A therapist. Olivia says it helps because she can talk about things that she doesn't want to tell Marty or Sandra. Stuff that she thinks they can't handle."

"Are there things you can't tell me?"

Mark didn't answer. He glanced over at the judge, and then glanced quickly away.

"Oh." Hardcastle cleared his throat. "Okay, fine."

"Judge, don't get sore. Hell, I just found out about this on Tuesday! Friday, if you want to get technical. Give me some time to process it, okay?"

The judge harrumphed. After a beat of silence, he offered, "You can ask Charlie, maybe he knows of a support group or something like that. That's something you should look into, when you get home."

"Like Alcoholics Anonymous?" Mark asked. A grin appeared, the first one seen during this discussion. "What do you think it's called, 'Bad Kidneys 'R' Us'?"

Milt returned the grin in spite of himself. Both men were silent again, but this time the quiet had a pleasant, relaxed feel. The judge stood, stretching. "Well, I'm gonna hit the hay. You think you'll be able to sleep now?"

Mark shrugged. "Maybe. My stomach's not bothering me as much now. I'm not looking forward to the next dose. Gotta get me some bananas or applesauce or something." He got a wistful, far off look on his face that Hardcastle recognized. The older man paused, and looked seriously at his friend.

"You know, no matter what happens with law school or playing Batman and Robin or maybe getting back into racing, none of that is important." Milt made sure the younger man was paying attention before he continued. "You being sick isn't even the most important thing. The only thing that should matter to you is your kid."

With that, Hardcastle turned and headed back to his bed. McCormick watched quietly, a disgruntled expression on his face. A moment later, he rose and strode back to his own bed, to sit on it facing Hardcastle.

"Way to make me feel like a heel, Hardcase!"

Milt sat up, sighing. "I didn't say it to make you feel like a heel, kid. I just want you to keep your priorities straight."

McCormick leaned forward, glaring intently at the judge. "You don't think I have my priorities straight? Why do you think I'm worried about my future? What if me being sick means everything I had planned falls by the wayside? What if I can't keep up in my classes, or if I can't handle the bar exam, if I even get to that point? What kind of a father can I be to her then?"

Hardcastle stared back just as intently. "The kind of father that cares about her. You think it matters to her what you have for a job – as long as it's legal? What if your father had stuck around? Would it have mattered to you if he was some famous singer, or if he was just a regular nine-to-five guy?"

Mark lowered his head. "You know better than to ask me that, Hardcastle. I wouldn't have cared, as long as he was in my life. But that's not the same thing –"

"No, I kinda think it is. She hasn't had you in her life, either. She'll just be happy that you're there."

"But that's just it, Judge." McCormick's face fell. "I can't be there, not forever, anyway. I – we have to go home. I know I grew up out here, lived out here almost twenty years, but California's home now. It's where my friends are, my school, my doctor. And I really miss it. I wouldn't think I would – I would think being back East would distract me, but if anything it's made me miss California more. It's weird."

Milt found he was smiling at the kid in affectionate understanding. When he saw McCormick give him an odd look, he attempted to erase the smile. Achieving a more neutral expression, he said, "Well, California's not going anywhere. It's not like you have to leave tomorrow."

"I know. I told her I'd stick around until Father's Day. That's next Sunday, so it's another week."

"Father's Day, huh?" The smile returned, and as Mark mirrored it, Milt didn't see the need to rein it in this time.

"Yeah," McCormick grinned, "Father's Day. Never really had a reason to celebrate it before. Well, a _biological_ reason," he quickly added.

"So you got a week, at least. Make it good. Take some time to get to know each other, do things together."

"Yeah," Mark muttered. "We can go see our doctors together. Or maybe we can go to joint therapy. Good times."

Hardcastle laughed shortly, then lay down, rolling over. "Go to bed, McCormick."

The judge lay with his back to the kid, but kept his eyes open, and his ears alert. He eventually heard Mark rise, to turn off the light over the table. The room darkened. The next thing Milt heard was the soft movement of the sheets on McCormick's bed, and the younger man's weary sigh as he climbed under the covers.

Milt was almost asleep when Mark spoke.

"Thanks, Judge."

"'Welcome. Go to sleep."

ooOoo

Mark slept straight through until ten the next morning, when Milt finally roused him to force him to take his pills, and eat something. After eating the oatmeal, toast, and fruit the judge had acquired in between the nearby convenience store and a local diner, McCormick again lay back in his bed, dozing. Hardcastle was finishing his own late breakfast – a surprisingly good vegetable omelet from the diner – when Mark suddenly rose from the bed and headed for the bathroom.

Hardcastle looked up with a frown, noticing the kid's paleness. When the bathroom door slammed, he called out, "You okay?"

"I'm fine!" It was muffled, but firm.

Milt sighed. "Antibiotics," he murmured, around his last bite of omelet.

ooOoo

It was ten to twelve ("By the time we get there, it'll officially be afternoon!" McCormick had declared) when they left the hotel to drive to Martina's. Milt was again chauffeur. Mark had whined and cajoled and pouted and yelled, but Hardcastle had stood firm, not allowing the younger man to drive himself from White Plains to Tarrytown. "Martina was right yesterday," the judge had stated, "when she pointed out you could have had that black-out when you were driving."

"It wasn't a black-out! I just got dizzy!"

"Whatever. You're not driving."

McCormicks's grumbles receded the closer they got to Martina's, and anxiousness set in. Hardcastle watched the nervous energy with mild interest, as Mark began to fidget in the passenger seat, jiggling his foot and tapping his fingers. At one point it seemed Mark's left hand was playing an imaginary piano.

"What's your problem?"

McCormick turned to the judge with a look of surprise. It was almost as if he had forgotten the older man was in the vehicle. "Problem?"

"You look like you're ready to jump outta your skin."

Mark huffed out a breath. "I don't know. Just edgy. I'm still not used to this. Having a kid."

"Well, you better try. This is the new normal, kiddo."

Mark looked sidelong at the judge. "Most guys get a little warning. Nine months is customary."

The judge grinned. "Well, no one can say you do things the easy way."

McCormick snorted at that, but didn't respond. He began to tap against his knee with his left hand, making a repetitive motion with his fingers. After a few moments, a quiet humming began to accompany the tapping.

Hardcastle was about to say something humorous, about how the humming was hurting his ears, but when he looked at his friend he refrained from commenting. Mark had suddenly relaxed, and even looked content. He had a small smile on his face, and the judge found himself smiling in reaction. He turned his attention to the road, listening as the kid continued to hum what sounded like "Stand By Me."

ooOoo

Sunday's activities included more in-depth photo album viewings. Hardcastle had dropped Mark off but hadn't stayed, claiming he had "Stuff I gotta do," and Sandra had also not been present, as she was meeting some former co-workers for a monthly get-together. So it was just the three of them, their own little unorthodox family. Mark and Martina were seated on the love seat in the family room; Olivia was perched on the piano bench. The girl had pulled the bench over so she was on the side of the love seat nearest her father.

This time the baby pictures were identified by Martina, as she offered descriptions and stories to go with the photos. There were pictures of Olivia's first outing (pushed in a stroller to a nearby park), pictures of her first time eating solid food, and a picture of her in a gaudy outfit, a gift from Sandra's best friend and sent all the way from Georgia. "We had to dress her in it once, so my mom could get a picture and send it back to Carole," Martina explained, when Mark raised his eyebrows at the photo of Olivia in the offending getup.

"I like Aunt Carole," Olivia said, "but she's got really bad taste. I've seen pictures from Aunt Carole's wedding – Grandma was the Matron of Honor, and Mom was the flower girl. Anyway, Aunt Carole's hair looked ridiculous. Like a big poufy cone on top of her head. Her veil hardly fit."

Martina laughed, smiling affectionately at her daughter. "Honey, it was 1962. That was the style back then."

McCormick looked up from the photo album. "Oh, you mean the beehive? Yeah. I remember, when I first met my aunt, she had a beehive. That would've been '64, I think." His face became thoughtful, then abruptly changed to tense. He cleared his throat lightly, turning back to the photos.

"An aunt?" Olivia asked, curiosity preventing her from seeing Mark's uneasiness. "Do you have cousins, too? Are they around here? You grew up out here, I mean, not _here_ , but Jersey, right, like Mom?" Mark didn't answer, but Olivia barely noticed, as she prattled on. "Aunt Carole's not really my aunt. She's Grandma's best friend, they grew up across the street from each other and they've been friends their whole lives. Mom and I just call her Aunt Carole. I kinda had an uncle, I mean I would have. He was stillborn." The girl quieted, looking somberly at her mother.

Mark shook his head, suddenly alert at this piece of information. "He . . . what? Marty? What is she talking about?"

Martina ducked her head with a soft sigh. "It was a few years before I was born. My parents didn't talk about it. My mom barely got to see him before the doctors took him away, and my father never got to see him at all. The hospital buried him in a communal grave."

"Marty – that's terrible."

Martina nodded. "It was what they did in the '50s, at least that hospital did."

"Still doesn't make it right," McCormick muttered. Then he became indignant. "Why didn't you ever tell me? Didn't you think I'd want to know about that?"

"I didn't really know much about him myself, Mark. Not until I was pregnant. Then my mom told me more. It was pretty hard on her, but she thought I deserved to know." She paused, struggling to keep her voice even.

"His name was Oliver Benjamin."

Mark shook his head sorrowfully. "I'm really sorry, Marty."

Martina gave him a sad smile. "That's one of the reasons I named her Olivia." She gestured at their solemn daughter. "It wasn't just to honor my father, it was also to honor my brother. I had decided on Olivia for a girl, or Benjamin for a boy."

Olivia spoke up."Yeah. It's a family tradition. You know, naming people after relatives? Grandma's named after _her_ grandmother, Mom's middle name is Grace, after her dad's mother, and I got named after my grandpa and uncle."

"And after your father," Martina added. "Mark's middle name is Daniel."

The unexpected fact caused Olivia to again cease her chatter. She looked to Mark for confirmation. He gave her a short nod, then turned to Martina. "I didn't even know you knew that," he said softly. "I don't remember telling you."

Martina tilted her head, then shook it briefly. "You didn't. Your mother did. It just came up one day when we were talking. . . She told me that your father had wanted to name you Martin Dean." Mark scowled, imagining the possibility of being named after a Rat Packer. Martina smiled at his reaction, then continued. "She said he had that name all picked out, because he was sure you were going to be a boy. And then when you were born your father wasn't at the hospital, and your mom got angry with him. So she named you Mark Daniel, and that was what the hospital put on your birth certificate." Her smile softened as she remembered. "We laughed about it, about how if they had named you Martin, our names would have been only one letter different."

Olivia looked at Mark with a grin. "Like our middle names are only two letters different."

Mark attempted to return the smile, but Martina's story had made his heart ache. He looked away from Olivia and down at the photo album, although no longer seeing the pictures. He spoke to Martina without raising his gaze.

"Sandra told me you visited my mom when I wasn't there. I didn't know you did that."

"She was funny, and she was nice. I liked talking to her, spending time with her. I just liked _her_."

McCormick sighed heavily. "Yeah. Me too." After a brief silence, Mark set the album aside and stood. "I think I should eat something. Right? Little meals, healthy snacks? I'm gonna go find something to eat." He headed for the kitchen.

Olivia watched Mark leave, then turned to her mother. "He did that yesterday, when he said something about – about his past." Olivia decided it wasn't important just what part of Mark's past he had mentioned. "He got weird and sad, and left. That was right before he got sick."

Martina gazed in the direction of the kitchen. "Mark's past is . . . hard for him to talk about. He just needs to ease into it. Give him time."

Olivia frowned. "It's not really like I asked him that much. I mean, I just asked about his aunt. He brought her up in the first place." She gave her mother an annoyed look. "You were the one who talked about his mother."

Martina was about to reply when there was a crash in the kitchen. Both mother and daughter rose from their seats, rushing to the other room. Martina beat her daughter by a half-step, to see McCormick standing near a cabinet, holding his hands out to prevent them from coming near. "I'm fine! I'm fine!" he insisted. "I just dropped a plate, that's all! Don't come too close, there's broken pieces all over the floor." He looked at the shattered fragments surrounding his feet. "Man, you've got some fragile plates."

Martina stopped, reaching out a hand to hold Olivia back. "Honey, go get the broom and dustpan from the basement."

"The basement?! Why not the broom closet? That makes more sense." The girl gestured across the room.

"I don't want you walking through this mess. And watch the attitude, young lady," Martina ordered. "Just get them now, please."

After looking one more time at her father, Olivia left, grumbling. Once she was gone, Martina moved toward Mark.

"Marty, watch out, the plate – "

"I have shoes on. It's fine." Martina reached out to Mark, placing her hands on his arms. "Well, it's no wonder you dropped it, you're shaking."

"I'm all right." McCormick mumbled. "You're the one who was baring her soul back there."

"Well, I'm okay." Martina didn't remove her hands, instead letting them slide around to Mark's back.

"You are?" he asked, encircling her waist with his arms.

"I am."

When Olivia returned with the broom and dustpan, her mother and father were hugging. But this time it wasn't an embrace of passion, like she had witnessed the day before. Instead, it appeared that her parents were holding each other up, making it seem that if one of them released their hold, then the other wouldn't be able to stand. It was disconcerting, yet comforting at the same time.

"Um. . . I got the broom."

"Thank you, Olivia." Martina pulled away from Mark, giving his shoulder a squeeze as they parted. She reached for the broom, and began sweeping up the broken pieces of the plate. Mark watched for a moment, and then looked to Olivia. Catching her eye, he grinned sheepishly. "Klutzy. Sorry."

Olivia slowly shook her head. "You used to race cars?" she asked dubiously. Mark's grin grew at her teasing tone. After a moment, Olivia began to grin as well.

"And I guess they called you 'Skid' because 'Crash' was already taken."

ooOoo

When the three eventually returned to the family room, the visit took on a cautious feel. There was an unspoken direction from mother to daughter, to avoid asking Mark any questions that could possibly trigger painful memories. Olivia, who was outwardly curious about anything to do with her father's past, disliked the restrictions on the conversation. She finally excused herself from the family room, saying that she wanted to lie down. Martina nodded, telling her to get some rest. Mark watched his daughter leave with concern.

"That's been happening a lot? That's why you want her to see her doctor?"

"Basically." Martina had a small smile on her face.

"What? What's funny?"

She held up a hand. "Just wait."

They sat quietly for maybe a minute. Then music started to play in Olivia's room, loud enough to carry throughout the house. "She's not tired," Martina scoffed. "You hear how loud that is?"

McCormick had a distant look on his face. "Yeah. . . "

"I think she's ticked at you."

Mark didn't answer. His head was tipped, and he was listening avidly. "That's Tears for Fears," he said in amazement.

"Oh? Right." Martina waved a hand. "I have a hard time keeping all of her music straight."

There was again no response from Mark, as he was focused on the song. Martina watched him curiously, seeing him nod his head to the beat, as he softly sung a few lyrics.

". . . knows in his heart you won't be home soon,  
He's an only child, in an only room . . . "

"Mark." Martina reached out to touch his arm. He inhaled sharply, blinking. Then his expression became puzzled.

"What do you mean, she's ticked at me?"

"She's being very impatient with getting to know everything about you. She doesn't like being forced to respect boundaries."

"Ah." McCormick looked in the direction of Olivia's bedroom. His face suddenly hardened.

"I guess she's gonna have to be ticked, then."

Martina raised her eyebrows fractionally, but she didn't comment. Mark held the hard look for another few seconds, then his face slackened and he suddenly appeared unsure. When he realized there had been no reply from Martina, he turned to her, assessing her silence.

"What, you think I'm wrong?"

"I didn't say anything." Martina turned a page of the scrapbook they'd been looking through.

Mark sat in quiet thought. He heard the song change on the stereo in Olivia's room; "Watch Me Bleed" was now playing. _I forgot how depressing the song titles are on this album._

"There are things I don't think I can tell her. Things I haven't even told you."

"I understand that. It only makes sense. It has been ten years since we've seen each other," Martina pointed out. "And we really haven't had any time to talk, to catch up, without being interrupted."

McCormick looked sidelong at Martina. "We had some uninterrupted time to ourselves that night in my motel room. I remember we talked for hours. Well, when we weren't otherwise occupied." A slow smile accompanied his words.

"I don't really think that's an option right now, Mark," Martina said gently. "Anyway, you're changing the subject." She leaned to the side, bumping his shoulder with her own. "You're good at that."

"No, I don't think I am. Changing the subject, I mean. I'm good at _lots_ of things." There was another wolfish grin, then Mark's smile flattened out. "I think we need to take some time, you and me, to catch up. Anything about me that's . . . not great . . . I think you should know first. We could decide, together, what I need to tell Olivia," the hard look returned, "if I tell her anything."

Martina took Mark's hand. "Mark, you can talk to me about anything you want. If you want to know how I feel about Olivia learning about certain parts of your past, that's fine. We can discuss it. If you just need to talk . . . I'll listen."

Mark looked in the direction of Olivia's room. "I don't think I can do that here, though. Little pitchers and big ears, you know? Hell, she saw us yesterday, when we – well, before you guys left to go sight-see or whatever you did."

"I thought I saw her peeking in the hall." Martina shook her head with an aggrieved expression. "It's a good thing we stopped when we did."

"Good thing you stopped me." Mark was running his thumb over Martina's hand. "I don't know, Marty. Something about us. You wouldn't think we could pick right up after so much time, that night, but we did. And now, well, I think I could pick right up again. And I'm pretty sure you feel the same way."

Martina looked down at their joined hands. "I do," she said softly. "But there are things you don't know about me, either."

"What, like Kurt?"

Martina jerked her head up. "How do you know about Kurt?"

"Olivia." When Martina's face clouded over, Mark was quick to defend the girl. "It's not like she was telling me to get a rise out of you or something. It just came up. If anything, I think _I_ have a right to get upset about it," he groused. "She told me that I reminded her of Kurt. His personality and his looks. . . She also said sometimes people mistook him for her father." There was a tinge of hurt in Mark's voice.

"What do you think, Mark, that I was trying to replace you as Olivia's father with a look-alike?"

"I don't know, I'm just telling you what the kid said." The hurt was swapped for anger.

"You weren't even here to be replaced!"

"That's not my fault! You didn't try to find me until Olivia got sick!" McCormick had pulled his hand out of Martina's. "And what if she hadn't gotten sick, would you have _ever_ told her about me? Or was my checkered past too much of a liability? I'm beginning to think you were the one who didn't want me in Olivia's life – that it wasn't your mother after all!"

"That's ridiculous, Mark –"

"Is it? After talking to her yesterday, it seems to me like she put more effort into looking out for me than you did! After I got picked up for taking my uncle's car, I never heard from you again until I was down in Florida. What was it, I was far enough away then? You didn't have to worry about being personally involved with such a head case?"

"I don't know! Maybe!"

Mark closed his eyes, sighing. "Damn."

Martina reached for him again, now taking both hands. "Mark, after your mother died. . . You scared me. The way you were acting. I hadn't really seen you like that before, and I didn't know if I could handle it. Handle you."

"I know. I'm sorry." McCormick opened his eyes, but wouldn't look at Martina. He studied the floor.

"You don't have anything to apologize for," Martina stressed, "you were grieving. You were distraught. But you were also a little manic, and you weren't making a lot of sense. If you . . . I was worried I wouldn't be able to stop you if you tried to hurt yourself. I was sixteen."

"Yeah, you were probably right to keep your distance," Mark said bluntly. "My aunt was thirty-something and she couldn't stop me."

A heavy silence fell. Martina stared at Mark. Her hands rose to his arms, clenching them tightly.

"Marty, ow! Watch the bruises!" He shook her hands off.

"What are you talking about, Mark? Stop you from what?"

"Nothing." Mark was rubbing his upper arms. "I was rambling. Forget I said anything."

"Oh, no, you don't." Martina rose, and stood over Mark, her hands on her hips. "If you won't tell me, I'll ask Milt."

"Fine." Mark had no problem with that; the judge had no knowledge, as far as he knew, of his suicide attempt. It was likely he knew about Mark's stint in the group home, but he was fairly positive that any records of the counseling sessions were out of even Hardcastle's long reach. And he hadn't divulged that much in counseling, anyway, just the bare minimum. It had ended up being enough – in his final one-on-one session with a psychologist, the woman had informed him of what she'd written: "After a cooperative effort of individual behavior modification and group counseling, subject has achieved a healthy mental status."

And as soon as the mentally healthy subject was sprung from the group home, he'd high-tailed it down to Florida.

Mark had now risen as well, to face Martina. "Go ahead, ask the judge. See how far you get."

"Why do you have to be so stubborn?" Martina exclaimed in frustration.

"I've got good reason, okay?!"

The two of them were glaring at each other when Sandra stepped into the room. "What on earth is going on here?" she asked. "I could hear you both arguing before I even got into the house."

Martina forced her focus away from Mark, looking to her mother. "I'm sorry, Mom. I didn't even hear you come in."

"That's obvious," Sandra replied dryly. She studied the couple for a moment, then cocked her head. "Well, I hear Olivia's listening to her music at her normal volume. Maybe trying to drown the two of you out?"

Both Mark and Martina looked chagrined. "She had it on loud before we started arguing," McCormick answered feebly.

"Mmm-hmm."

Martina glanced briefly in the direction of her daughter's room, then turned hopefully to her mother. "Mom, you're not going anywhere else, right? Can you keep an eye on Olivia? She said she was lying down – I doubt it – but can you stay and make sure she's all right?"

"Of course." Sandra waved a hand. "You don't have to ask that. Why?"

"Because Mark and I are going for a drive." Martina looked pointedly at McCormick. "I'm not sure how long we'll be gone. It depends on how cooperative he is."

"What are you – " McCormick broke off as Martina took his hand, leading him out of the room and toward the back door. "Marty! I don't want – "

"Do you want to talk here? Get into all the details and specifics in a place where Olivia can overhear it all?" Martina paused briefly to take her keys off a hook in the kitchen.

Mark shook his head. "Who says going someplace else is going to make me want to tell you that stuff? 'Details and specifics.' That's not exactly what I meant by catching up, Marty."

Martina opened the door and coaxed Mark out to the car.

"We'll see."

* * *

 _ **Author's Note:**_ The Tears for Fears song that McCormick sings is "Suffer The Children," written by Roland Orzabal. It's from Tears' first album, _The Hurting_. And Mark is right; the album title is accurate, as many of the songs (and lyrics) are depressing. I still love it, though.

If you have a chance, check out the lyrics for "Suffer The Children." You'll see why I picked that song for McCormick to sing.

 **-ck**


	30. Chapter 30

_**Inheritance Tax**_ **by InitialLuv**

 **Chapter Thirty**

 _We'll see._

McCormick was hit with a strong sense of déjà-vu, and they'd been in the car for several minutes before the full recollection hit: the night he'd first been introduced to Gulls' Way, nearly five years ago. _F_ _ive years?_ Sarah had informed him of his new duties: chores, running to the market, pulling weeds, et cetera. Tired, overwhelmed, and a little intimidated, he'd smarted off to the woman, _"I'm not here to weed a garden, y'know."_ Sarah's calm, knowing response had been a musical, _"We'll see."_

McCormick looked over at Martina. She was clutching the steering wheel tightly, with a determined look on her face.

"Where are we going?"

"I don't know." Martina glanced at him, and Mark saw the determination slip a little. "Someplace we can talk."

"I'm fine talking in the car. Comfortable, even."

Martina's mouth tugged up in a smile. "I don't doubt that. But it'll get too warm in here."

"Just how long do you think we'll be talking?" Mark asked, slightly alarmed.

"As long as we need to." The determination was back.

Mark leaned back in his seat. "Man, I hate being a passenger. No control."

"Do you mean over the driving, or the situation?"

"Both." McCormick grinned. "But if the situation gets really bad, I'll just jump out at the next stop light."

"I don't doubt that, either," Martina scoffed.

"Yeah, I've always been good at running. Not necessarily at getting away, but I sure as hell try." McCormick reached forward and began to play with the radio. Martina took one hand off the steering wheel, placing it on Mark's hand to stop him. He looked at her inquiringly.

"What do you mean, 'try'? Shouldn't it be past-tense?"

"Oh. Yeah, I guess."

Martina's frown showed she didn't think much of the lackadaisical response. "What are you trying to run from?"

McCormick shot her an irritated look. "I didn't say I was running from anything. It was a mistake. I meant 'tried'."

Martina didn't answer, instead pursing her lips and focusing solely on the road. Mark sat back in his seat again, the radio forgotten.

Roughly a minute later, Martina pulled into a restaurant parking lot, driving around to the rear. She stopped the car and faced Mark, who was peering out the window curiously. "Um, okay, not what I was expecting – "

"Knock it off." Martina's brusque tone surprised Mark, and he turned to see her focused look. "I want to know what you meant," she continued. "Are you planning on leaving?"

"Where is this coming from?" McCormick queried, his voice rising somewhat.

"Don't answer a question with a question. Just tell me!" Martina looked imploringly at Mark. He shook his head, raising his hands.

"Of course I'm leaving, Marty! I have to go home! I don't live out here. I have school, and my doctor's in L.A., and I just. . . I'm homesick." He sighed, lowering his hands. "I don't know how I'm going to tell her."

"But you're not leaving for good. . ?"

"No! Well, I don't _think_ so, but I really don't know what's going to happen. I have been thinking about it, that maybe I could transfer my credits to a law school out here. I'm sure if I could, Hardcastle would know how. And even if it's not something that's normally done, he'd figure out a way." _Even if that means me coming to live out here and leaving him behind._

"So you want to go home, and you want to stay?"

Mark didn't answer, but he tapped his nose, smiling.

"Well, I guess I get that," she said. "I can't expect you to uproot your life without even knowing her. I just don't want you to abandon her. To go back to California and forget about her."

"How can you think that?" McCormick demanded. "Do you even know me at all?" He turned away, a set look to his mouth. "Never mind. Don't answer that. If you knew me you would've told me you were pregnant at the start, instead of lying to me, and then waiting ten years."

"I wasn't the one who lied to you about me being pregnant, Mark. My mother did that. And I didn't know she had, at least not right away."

"Yeah? When did you find out? A couple weeks later, when I was in jail and you were glad that I didn't know? Maybe after Olivia was born? I'm sure it wasn't last week."

"No." Martina ran her hands over the steering wheel idly. "No, she told me after I called the second time, when I found out that you had been arrested. But it was just the timing. She wasn't planning on telling me then, she was going to wait at least until we knew for sure. She thought if things turned out a certain way, she might never have to tell me. Because it wouldn't be necessary to talk to you."

"Marty. You're not making any sense." Mark was disturbed by her vague words. It almost sounded like she had considered abortion, but he just couldn't picture Martina doing that. A small seed of dread began to take root in his stomach.

Martina took a deep breath, taking her hands off the steering wheel and dropping them into her lap. She looked straight out the windshield.

"The night of your uncle's wake, when we spent the night in your motel room . . . I was in a relationship. I had been for almost two years. And we'd just gotten engaged."

"You. . ." McCormick felt the dread sprout into an ache of panic. "You were with – you didn't know, when you got pregnant, you – " He found the pain in his stomach was making it hard to breathe, and he couldn't form coherent words. He gasped, feeling like he might hyperventilate. "Olivia. She's – is she – "

"Mark, Olivia's your daughter!" Martina reached over to take Mark's shoulder, giving him a brisk shake. "Of course she is. I knew that even before the PKD. Mark, my God, you must know that."

Mark shook his head, trying to dispel the sudden pain of fear and loss that had overtaken him. "Don't do that to me, Marty. Don't take something away from me that I just realized I can't live without."

Martina smiled faintly. "That's not exactly the part I thought you'd take away from me telling you this."

McCormick didn't seem to immediately hear Martina's comment, or to process her earlier statement. He was still breathing shallowly as he tried to calm himself down. _I guess I know now what I'll pick if it comes between a life with Olivia, or a life without her._

And then everything hit him all at once.

"You were in a relationship – you were engaged?! And you slept with me?!"

Martina stared back at Mark, stared into the deep blue eyes that were filled with shock and betrayal.

"Yes. And I was engaged, but mainly because it was the next step, it was 'expected.' I wasn't in love."

"Oh, that makes it so much better!" Mark laughed derisively. "So what was I, a reason to break up with him? An easy out? Shit, Marty!" McCormick wrenched open the car door and lurched out, not even bothering to shut the door behind him. Again. This was happening to him again, just like with Kiki and Tina Grey and too many others. Used by a pretty face. _I must have "chump" branded on my forehead._

Once out of the car, he turned in a circle, unsure what to do next. No church to claim sanctuary in. The restaurant, a supper club, wasn't yet open. The other nearby establishments included a retail store and a strip mall. Both were on the other side of the main road. Nowhere to run, nowhere to hide.

 _And why do you have to run? What did_ _ **you**_ _do wrong? She was the one cheating on her fiancé, and you didn't even know he existed!_

Mark eventually made his way to the strip of grass that divided the restaurant parking lot from the road. He sat down on the curb and lowered his head into his hands. It was turning out to be a lovely day.

He was mildly aware of Martina sitting next to him. He didn't look at her, but he also didn't tell her off like he wanted to. He didn't think he had the energy to really tell her how he felt.

"Mark – "

He lifted his head. "Why, Marty. Why would you do that? _Why?_ "

She shook her head with a sigh. "Mark, I didn't consciously come to the visitation with the thought of going to bed with you." McCormick grimaced, remembering how he had told the judge almost the exact same thing. "It just happened."

"You used me."

"Mark, it wasn't – " Martina let out another sigh. "With me being here and you being in Florida, I didn't know if we were ever going to see each other again. Even when you came back up here, to race at – where was it, Lancaster?" McCormick nodded dully. "I didn't even know you were in New York. I would have come to see you then, but by the time I saw your name in the sports section, you were gone. So when I finally saw you at the funeral home . . . Okay, maybe things didn't just 'happen.' But I was not going to let you leave, _again_ , without – without being with you." She studied him carefully. "I had thought you felt the same way."

"You still should've told me."

"If you had known I was engaged, would you have slept with me?"

"No!" After a beat, Mark repeated, "No. It wouldn't have been right." He dropped his head again, looking at the ground. "I would have told you to leave, go back home. Or I wouldn't have suggested going back to my motel in the first place." He lifted his head and stared at Martina with a sudden realization. "I don't remember seeing a ring."

Martina cocked her head to the side with a slight eye-roll. "It was too big. It was being re-sized."

"That was convenient." Mark copied the eye-roll, then winced at a sudden pain behind his eyes. Apparently it wasn't just the California sun that gave him headaches. Getting up from the curb, he moved to sit under the shade of a nearby tree. After a moment, Martina joined him. She watched with concern as he rubbed his temples.

"Are you all right?"

Mark nodded. "Sun headache."

"Olivia gets those. If she's outside for more than a half hour on a sunny day, I try to make sure she has sunglasses or a hat – " Martina broke off as she saw Mark's body tense. "Mark? What is it?"

"You didn't know. When you found out you were pregnant. Right? You didn't know if it was mine or . . . his."

"Ellis."

"Ellis?" Mark repeated, with obvious disgust. "Preppy name."

Martina smiled faintly. "Maybe. He did graduate from the Teachers College at Columbia."

"Engaged to an Ivy Leaguer," McCormick muttered. "But you didn't answer my question. Did you not know? Is that what you meant about maybe not needing to talk to me? Because it could have been his kid?"

"Yes. The timing really made me think the baby was yours, but I wasn't positive."

"But you still tried to call me. Even though it might've been the Ivy Leaguer's kid. Why?"

"Because I wanted it to be yours. I wanted _you._ And I thought if I called you, and told you I was pregnant, you'd come back. You would have, too, right?"

Mark sighed. "If you wanted me here that badly, why didn't you just tell me that night? Instead of letting me go back to Florida?"

"You had a life there. A career. I knew how important that was to you. I didn't think I could ask you to stay. And I knew you wouldn't ask me to leave. Then I found out I was pregnant –"

"And you thought 'Hey, an opportunity!' You could pick whichever guy worked for you. Only when you decided to pick me, you found out I was a poor choice."

"You were the only choice, Mark. I wanted you to be my baby's father, and I wanted you to be with me. If Olivia had been Ellis's he would have been there for her, but we wouldn't have stayed together. I broke our engagement and gave him his ring back when I was about six months pregnant. I told him I was probably eighty percent sure you were the father," she looked seriously at Mark, "but he didn't want to believe me. He had already gotten emotionally involved, 'connected' to my pregnancy. Even after we broke up he did his best to stay in touch. My mom made sure of that."

"I'll bet," Mark scoffed. "I can imagine her decision-making process there. Who would she rather be her grandchild's father? The guy with the life-risking career, the guy who'd recently been in jail and had been in and out of trouble for half his life? Or the guy you were engaged to, the guy who went to Columbia? Yeah, I'm sure that was a hard choice."

"Well, it ended up being neither of you. I went from having two possible fathers for Olivia to none." Martina was rubbing her hands together repeatedly, as if she were cold. She was gazing across the parking lot, but didn't seem to be studying anything other than her memories. "He came to the hospital after I had Olivia, but he stayed maybe ten minutes. I haven't really seen him since. We cross paths occasionally, and other than a quick hello, we don't talk anymore."

"Ten minutes?" McCormick asked doubtfully. "I've seen Olivia's baby pictures. It's not like you could definitely tell she was mine when she was a newborn. I mean, her hair didn't even start to curl until . . . when?"

"About eight months."

"So why didn't he stick around?" Mark pressed. "What changed his mind about claiming Olivia was his kid?"

Martina smiled. "Mark, Ellis is black."

"Oh." Mark thought for a moment, then repeated, "Oh." Then he began to chuckle.

"It's not funny," Martina defended, annoyed.

McCormick heaved in a breath. "Yes, it is." He barely got the words out before he was laughing again.

Martina quirked a grin, and then began to giggle as well. The two replaced their stress with almost overwhelming laughter, to the point that McCormick's stomach cramped, and Martina's eyes began to water.

"Oh, God." Mark held a hand against his stomach, breathing deep. "I needed that. Things were getting a little too tense."

Martina wiped her eyes. "I know. I'm sorry. But I couldn't keep the truth from you any longer. If you're going to be a part of our family, I don't think we should have any more secrets."

Mark took another stilling breath. "What? Part of your family? What does that mean?"

"If you're going to be in Olivia's life, either here or from California, then you're part of our family." Martina shrugged, as if the logic was irrefutable.

"Huh." Mark smiled. "I guess I could handle that."

"But it works on both sides, Mark. I know you're keeping things from me," Martina said. "I just shared something I would have rather never told you. It's your turn."

McCormick stared at her. "I don't know if I can do that, Marty."

"I'm not talking about prison," she clarified. "I understand you can't tell me what . . . happened there."

"You don't need to know."

I respect that."

"That's big of you," Mark muttered.

"But you need to talk to me," Martina stressed. "Olivia noticed how you get distant and upset when you talk about your past, and she's worried about you. I am, too."

Mark shook his head. "How is talking about stuff that happened in my past going to help? It's not like I can change anything."

"It'll help me – _us_ understand. After you talked to my mom, didn't you finally understand her a little? Realize why she treated you the way she did?"

McCormick made a face, then nodded in reluctant agreement. "I think I might even understand why she lied to me when I called from Florida, why she didn't say the real reason you'd called. If she thought you were pregnant with the preppy's baby, or if she was hoping you might still get married, she didn't want me in the mix. I had thought it was just because she hated me, and I didn't know why, what I had done, you know? It makes more sense now."

"See?" Martina was smiling. "You and my mom can be civil, now. Friendly, even."

"Don't push it, Marty," Mark warned, even though he had been leaning toward that conclusion himself

The woman laughed lightly. "Okay, you guys take it slow." She became serious again. "I need you to talk to me," she repeated. "I need to know what you meant when you said that thing about your aunt. About her not being able to stop you from hurting yourself."

Mark stood suddenly, steadying himself with an arm braced against the tree. "Why is that so important? I just threw out a comment, I wasn't even thinking. It's not that big a deal." _But what "secret" do you think you_ _ **can**_ _reveal? What happened that night almost nineteen years ago, or what happened that day just over three years ago?_

Suicide attempt versus killing someone.

Martina rose as well, facing him. "It's obviously a big deal if you're having such a hard time telling me."

They stood staring quietly at each other, McCormick bristling under Martina's steady expression. His headache pulsed, and the tinnitus suddenly increased. He inhaled sharply with a wince. Martina reached out in concern. "Mark – "

"I'm all right!" He changed his position, leaning against the tree with his arms crossed protectively in front of him. He dropped his head, speaking low.

"The night of my uncle's visitation, if you had shown up maybe five minutes later, you would've missed me."

Martina tipped her head. "Well, I would have waited for you to come back. I didn't really come to mourn your uncle. I came to see you."

"I wasn't going to come back. I wasn't even going to stay for the funeral. I was planning on checking out of the motel and heading back to Florida."

"Back to – " Martina made a sound of disbelief. "You drove up from Florida, got a motel room, only to stay at the visitation for an hour – "

"More like forty-five minutes."

"—and then drive right back?"

"Well, I had planned to stay a few days," McCormick said. "Wake, funeral. Go to my aunt's place, maybe catch up with Annie. Drive over to my old neighborhood, check things out. But I didn't realize the wake would be so – hard. Especially with how my aunt was acting. . . Just too many bad memories. I had to get out of there."

Martina nodded slowly. "Memories of your mother's funeral. Same funeral home, same cemetery. Still too fresh?"

Mark laughed humorlessly. "You would think. But I don't remember my mother's funeral. Definitely before, and then what happened after, but not the funeral itself."

Martina's eyes widened slightly. "What, not at all?"

"Um, images. Feelings," Mark said. "But no, not really."

"Do you think you blocked it out?" Martina wondered.

"No. I think I was drugged."

McCormick left the parking lot island, crossing back to the car. The passenger door was still ajar. He sat in the seat, leaning his head back and closing his eyes. He left the door open.

By the time Martina joined Mark in the car, he was sitting up, with his hands pressed against his ears. "This is never gonna go away," he whispered to himself.

"Mark."

He lowered his hands, but didn't respond.

"You can't just say that and leave it. What are you talking about, drugged?" She paused, waiting to see if he would explain. When there was still no answer, she reached over and touched his arm. " _Mark_."

He turned to look at her with an expression of weary resignation. "You – you said I was kind of a mess when I came to your place after my mother died."

"Well, yes. But that was understandable."

He shook his head. "I guess it wasn't understandable enough to get away with decking the social worker. I was thinking, after I talked to your mom, that if she hadn't shown up with the cop that night, I probably would've run. I mean, when I saw the social worker. I didn't want anything to do with him."

"Is that why you hit him?"

"Honestly, Marty, I didn't even know it was him. I just had to get out of the hospital, and he was in the way." Mark smiled ruefully. "But at the time I didn't regret it. I remember feeling like everyone was against me. Paranoid, I guess. I hadn't been sleeping much, in between work and the hospital and school – when I went. I don't think you were there to see me like that. It was when we were both back in school, and we didn't really see each other much. Except for the couple weekends before my mom died."

Martina inhaled shakily. "I remember. I remember seeing you in your mom's room, and you looked like you were the one that belonged in a bed. Your mom was sleeping – my mom had told me it was pretty much all she was doing at that point – and you were dozing in the chair. You heard me and you woke up, and then you looked okay again. Maybe a little pale, but you looked like _you_ enough that I thought maybe I had imagined how bad you looked. Or maybe I just didn't want to know." She lowered her head. "When I went back to school and I was back with my friends, it was. . . normal. I felt happy and carefree. And then on the weekends I would come to work at the hospital, and spend time with you, and everything was so different. Tense, sad. You were angry and closed-off. In a way I felt like it was my fault, for being not being there for you. At the same time I almost resented you, for making me feel that I was wrong to be happy. I think I started to pull away from you then."

McCormick nodded, his face grim. "Yeah. It's okay, Marty. I was a wreck, and you said it before – you were sixteen. Maybe I didn't understand it then, but I do now. Things got so my aunt and uncle couldn't handle me, so I doubt you would have been able to.

"That's what happened, pretty much. Those few days after my mom died, and before the funeral, I kinda lost it. I was out of control, fighting with my uncle, yelling at my aunt. . . The day of the funeral, I flipped out. I told them I wasn't going. Then my uncle said if _I_ wasn't going to go, he sure as hell wasn't going. I went after him. My aunt tried to get in between us, and I shoved her, and then my uncle let me have it." He gave a short laugh, but his eyes were hard, his face pale with fury. "Oh, it was perfectly fine for him to beat my aunt, but I give her a shove and all of a sudden he has to 'defend' her, practically break my ribs to put me in my place. Bastard."

Martina reached out again, but then drew her hand back. Mark was wound up like a spring, and she was afraid her touch would set him off.

"So I'm refusing to go to the funeral, and my uncle's refusing to go, and there was no way my aunt was going to go by herself and leave the two of us home alone together. She knew she had to calm me down. So she gave me one of her Valium. And it worked. They got me to the funeral. I just don't remember it, is all."

Martina's eyes took on a hard expression similar to Mark's. "She gave a fifteen-year-old her prescription medication?"

McCormick shrugged. "One pill. A blue one."

"Mark – you could have had some kind of reaction, a side effect! That was incredibly irresponsible of her!"

"I don't really blame her, Marty. She probably wasn't thinking too clearly herself, you know?" he pointed out. "I don't know how often she took the pills, but I know she had half-empty bottles squirreled around the house."

"That's something an addict does, Mark – hiding pill bottles around the house."

Mark shrugged again. "Maybe. I don't know if she was hiding them, or just making sure she had a few extra doses for a rainy day." He knew his uncle had had a similar habit, only his scattered bottles had contained booze. Whiskey in the basement, vodka in the attic, beer in the garage.

Martina was shaking her head angrily. "If you couldn't have handled the funeral, they shouldn't have forced you to go. You could have mourned your mother in your own way."

"Yeah, I don't think my aunt and uncle were that progressive." Mark scoffed. "My aunt was just trying to help. And then later, she felt like what happened was her fault. I don't think it was. I don't know." He breathed out a long sigh, shuddering slightly.

"What was her fault? What happened, Mark?" Martina's voice was soft, but persistent.

McCormick shifted uneasily in his seat. It was getting warm in the car, like Martina had predicted, but he wasn't quite sure if it was the heat of the day, or his growing unease.

"I've never really told anyone what happened, Marty. At least, not anyone who'd care. When I was in the group home, I got sent to these. . . well, 'group' counseling sessions. And I had to talk about it then, because if I didn't 'contribute' and cooperate, I would have been stuck there until I was eighteen. And there was no way I was spending a year in there. I thought the kids in juvie were nuts, but that place was like one step up from an asylum."

"How did you end up there?"

Mark looked up, startled – and relieved – at the change of topic. "Uh, your mom knew. Didn't you?"

Martina tilted her hand in a see-saw gesture. "Vaguely. We didn't talk about you a lot, but occasionally she'd mention you'd had a 'challenge' in a foster home, or that you were back in detention. She acted like she was making a point: that she had made the right decision in keeping you away from me. But I think it was more to convince herself that you were too difficult, too troubled, to help. I think a lot of her animosity toward you is an act, Mark, or a bad habit. It's her way of making herself feel better, for leaving you in the lurch like she did."

"Especially after –" McCormick broke off, not sure if he could share the story of what Sandra had promised his mother. Instead he answered Martina's earlier question. "I ended up in the group home after my second stretch in juvie, and that happened after I got kicked out of my second foster home."

"Why did you get kicked out?"

"Technically? For fighting." Mark took a deep breath before continuing. "Things were actually okay there, until my foster parents took in two other kids. One of them decided it was fun to torment me. If he wasn't beating on me he was threatening to. He was bigger than me, and if I did try to fight back he'd give it to me even worse. I was scared all the time, thinking he was going to jump me when I wasn't expecting it. I couldn't sleep. It was like being back with my uncle. Finally after a few weeks of this, I snapped. We were coming home from school and he was taunting me and pushing me, slapping me around like he usually did. We were just outside the house when he made some comment about my mom. I turned around and swung my backpack into his face. Broke his nose. Then I just started hitting him. And I kept hitting him, even when he stopped fighting back. The next-door neighbor had to pull me off, and then I started swinging on him." He'd run off, then, once he'd shaken off the neighbor who'd tried to corral him. Not wanting to have anything to do with the foster home and the punishment (and possible retribution) he would most definitely face, he'd spent that night and the next on the street. The first night he'd curled up in the entryway of a derelict apartment building, scarcely sleeping and shaking in fear at each movement and sound. The second night he'd found a small church with a loose window, and he'd slipped inside, with only slight misgivings – he figured if anyone would forgive him for breaking and entering, it would be God. He'd actually slept that night, and when he awoke, stiff, hungry, and apologetic, he knew he had to go back, if only to let someone know he was all right. He'd felt he owned his foster parents that much. And they _had_ been worried about him – but then they'd washed their hands of him. "I was back in juvie within the week. And after I got out that time, I got sent to a group home. Social services figured I was too screwed-up for a typical foster home."

"Mark. . . " Martina ran a hand down his arm, taking his hand. "You weren't. You just had some really bad breaks."

"Yeah, well, they didn't have a home for that." McCormick smiled wanly. "And I was, kind of. Screwed-up. With everything that happened after my mom died – the whole crap with her funeral, my uncle using me as a his personal punching bag, two stints in juvie – I wasn't exactly the picture of mental health. I mean, I wasn't the cheerful, optimistic guy sitting here next to you." He tried a real grin, and got close.

An intermittent parade of cars was arriving at the supper club, parking near the entrance. _Waitstaff, or maybe early diners. . ._ Mark checked his watch, seeing it was quarter to five. _When did that happen?_ He suddenly realized he was hungry.

Martina saw Mark glance at his watch, and she reached with her free hand to turn his right wrist, so she could see the timepiece. "We have a little time," she assured him. "Once we finish talking, we can be home in ten minutes. Fifteen if there's traffic."

"Traffic. In this little town?" McCormick let out a short laugh. "You were in L.A. _That's_ traffic."

"Don't try to change the subject," Martina chided him.

"Would I do that?" He stared at her in wide-eyed innocence. "Anyway, I thought we _were_ done talking. I think I told you enough." He pulled his door shut, and gestured at the keys that Martina had left in the ignition. "Why don't you fire that thing up and get some air in here, and then we can head back."

"Do not tell me what to do, Mark McCormick." Martina released Mark's hand, reaching for the keys and taking them out of the ignition. She clenched them tightly in her hand. "Watch it, or I'll drop these down a sewer grate."

McCormick now achieved a true, wide grin. "That would be kind of a hollow gesture. I don't need keys, Marty."

She sighed noisily. "That's not the point." Martina dropped the keys into the ash tray, then slanted a look at Mark. "You could really hot-wire my car?"

He nodded. "It's a couple years old. The newer ones are getting to be a challenge. Not that I really do it anymore," he added quickly. "I mean, not regularly."

"Mmm-hmm."

"Ugh. Don't do that. You sound like your mom." Mark scowled at Martina. She laughed softly.

A moment of quiet fell, as both looked out the windshield, lost in their respective thoughts. Martina was the one who broke the silence, turning to look at Mark.

"Mark, did you – did you try to hurt yourself? After your mother died?"

Mark stayed quiet. He continued to look out the windshield, not returning Martina's stare. With a growing dismay, she realized what his lack of a quick denial meant. "Oh, no," she whispered.

He turned to her, instantly hostile. "What? What's the problem, huh? You have some issue with that, with some idiotic, impulsive thing I did when I wasn't thinking straight? Apparently I wasn't determined enough, though – otherwise I wouldn't be here. I'm fine!" His voice softened somewhat. "I was fine."

Mark returned his gaze to the windshield. He was breathing hard, and he found he was absentmindedly grinding his teeth. He forced himself to stop, closing his eyes as he attempted to compose himself.

Martina watched him, gauging his reactions. When she felt he was somewhat calm, she posed her next question.

"What happened?"

He shook his head. "Why does this matter, Marty?"

"Because I care about you. This is a part of you, a part of what makes you who you are."

"Yeah, an insanely stupid part."

"Okay," Marty conceded, "whatever you did, it was crazy and stupid. But at some point you must not have thought that. At some point you. . . " She trailed off. "What did you _do_ , Mark?"

"It wasn't anything planned. I didn't even think about it. If I had. . . " Mark sighed deeply. "I'm just glad I didn't think about it."

He continued to stare out the windshield. "The night after my mom's funeral, I woke up in the middle of the night. I wasn't sleeping great then; I think maybe the only reason I fell asleep was the Valium my aunt gave me. Anyway, I woke up because I needed some aspirin. Earlier, when my uncle – Well, I just needed some aspirin." He huffed out a harsh breath.

"I was digging around in the bathroom medicine cabinet, and I found one of my aunt's bottles of Valium. I think it was one she'd forgotten about. It was almost empty, only six pills. Maybe a couple day's worth for her, I don't know.

"I took them all."

Martina reached over to put her hand on Mark's shoulder. He shrugged it off, leaning away.

"I'm not telling you this to make you feel sorry for me, or to get you upset. It happened. And even though it was really nothing, it wasn't enough to hurt me, I wish it hadn't happened." McCormick shook his head rapidly. "It made me doubt who I was. And I didn't need that. I didn't have anyone but myself to count on back then, for a long time, and the fact that I was that desperate to try something like that . . . I hated myself for a while."

"What happened after you took the pills?"

Mark gave a slight shrug. "Passed out, fell asleep. I guess they hit me pretty hard, since I hadn't been eating or sleeping much, plus I was still a little groggy from the one I took earlier. My aunt found me on the bathroom floor a while later. A couple hours, I don't know. She thought I was dead." He lowered his head. "She was hysterical. She was hitting me and shaking me, trying to wake me up. I could feel it, and hear her screaming for my uncle, but it took me a while to completely come around. But I finally did."

Martina was also now staring ahead, recognizing that Mark found it easier to talk when she wasn't looking at him. "My mother would've known if you'd been brought into the ER – they must have taken you to a different hospital," she mused.

"Hospital?" McCormick turned, and as Martina faced him, she saw a bemused look on his face. "What for? I woke up, threw up a couple times, that was it. I told you, I was fine."

Martina threw her hands up, suddenly fuming. "Mark, you weren't 'fine'! You tried to kill yourself! Even if you didn't need to go the hospital, you should have at least seen a therapist or a psychologist! Oh, but let me guess – your aunt and uncle weren't that 'progressive.'" She turned away, crossing her arms. The anger gradually subsided, yet Martina grumbled quietly to herself, shaking her head. McCormick watched her, a wry smile replacing the confusion on his face.

"Well, my aunt did hide the knives away."

Martina whipped her head around to look at Mark in horror. He held his hands up quickly. "No, Marty, no! There wasn't any reason to, I wasn't – No! She just got a little over-cautious. She went through the house and found all of her random prescription bottles, and she watched me like a hawk for a while. At least until my uncle decided she was coddling me, and then things went back to normal." He scoffed. "After a week or so of that, I had to get out of there. That's when I took his car."

"I wish you would have told me this, Mark, that night." Martina's expression had softened from horror to regret.

Mark snorted. "Yeah, you already didn't want to go anywhere with me. Like telling you I had attempted suicide would've made me a better prospect?"

"Well, no, I still wouldn't have gone with you, but my God, Mark, I would've made you stay. Gotten my mom involved – "

McCormick laughed. "Marty, I didn't want anything to do with your mom. As far as I was concerned, she was the main reason why everything bad happened in the first place. She was the one who turned me in, got me sent to my uncle's. Hell, if she knew I had taken his car, she probably would have personally called the cops on me and held me in a citizen's arrest."

"Mark. . ." Martina said, in a tone she usually reserved for Olivia.

He nodded, recognizing the sharpness in just the one word. "I know, I know. She wouldn't have done that. But that's how I felt back then. Kinda hard to shake it. What did you say, bad habit?" He smiled wearily. "Either way, I had no intention of staying in Jersey. I didn't know where I was headed, but it was going to be as far away as possible." He leaned back against his seat. "Man, I'm beat. And starving." It seemed like it had been hours since he'd eaten (left-over summer squash casserole), after they'd cleaned up the broken plate. He turned his head in the direction of the restaurant. "Whatever they're making in there smells great." He sniffed appreciatively. "Smells like French fries."

Martina put the keys back in the ignition. "If it's fried and salty, you probably shouldn't be eating it. My mom is making home-made pizza tonight. Trust me, you'll love it."

"Let me guess – no meat?"

"No, there's meat," Martina reassured him. "But she does use low-fat cheese, and makes it on a whole-wheat crust."

"Low-fat cheese," McCormick groused, shooting another longing look at the restaurant. Martina started the car, but just as she was about to put it in gear, Mark's hand shot out to halt her.

"Marty, what I just told you – _everything_ I told you – that's just between you and me, right? God forbid Olivia hear any of that. I mean, Hardcastle doesn't even know . . . and I'd kind of like to keep it that way." McCormick felt a little guilty about that, but the fact was, he _didn't_ want the judge to hear the details Martina now knew. "I don't want you telling your mother, either," he continued. "It's bad enough that you – I just don't want her thinking any less of me than she already does, all right?"

Martina turned the car off, then faced Mark. "Is that what you think? That now that I know a little more about you, I think less of you?"

Mark didn't answer, but his mild expression confirmed her words.

Martina shook her head. "And what I told you, about being engaged when I slept with you – do you think less of me?"

McCormick took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. "I . . . feel like I don't know you as well as I thought I did."

Martina surprised him by laughing. "Of course you don't, Mark. It's been ten years. That's the whole reason we're doing this, right? We need to get to know each other again. And no, I won't share anything that you told me today." She reached over to touch Mark's face, caressing his cheek. "But I'm glad that we were finally able to talk to each other. And I don't know about you, but I'm looking forward to learning even more about you."

He caught her hand, drawing it away, but held it tightly. "I'm not no Ivy Leaguer, Marty." In his unease, he lapsed back into callow slang.

"Why do you do that?" she demanded. "Put yourself down like that? You're in law school, for God's sake, act like it! And to hear Milt tell it, you're doing well!"

"Well I haven't gotten my grades from my finals, yet," McCormick mumbled. Then his head jerked up, and he appeared startled. "Actually, they might be sitting in the mailbox back home. Or on the neighbor's counter, if Hardcase asked her to take in our mail. Damn."

"Mark." Martina pulled their joined hands up, turning her wrist slightly so she could press Mark's hand against her lips. "Nothing that you've told me has changed my opinion of you. Or scared me away. I know we haven't had that much time, but any worries that I had, about if you were still 'you' – I don't have them anymore. I think the moment I saw you at our front door, and realized you had followed me out here – I knew."

Mark looked down, not wanting to meet Martina's eyes. "I didn't really come out here for you, Marty. Being here with you is . . . _great,_ but I came out here for Olivia."

"I know." Martina smiled softly. "That's what I meant. You're a good person. A good man. Even after everything that happened, with my mother and I either lying to you or withholding the truth from you, you didn't hold it against Olivia. You're amazing with her. And you're going to be a wonderful father."

As Martina was talking, she had taken her free hand, and was rubbing Mark's arm. As she drew his hand up to kiss it again, he pulled it from her grasp, but continued the upward motion. He ran the back of his hand down her face to her chin, and brushed her lips with his thumb.

This time there was no one to interrupt the kiss, nor was there an underage observer. When Mark's hands darted under Martina's shirt, she didn't push them away. Martina had her own hands exploring under the collar of Mark's shirt, pulling the material out of shape. She ran her hands slowly over Mark's shoulders, massaging the bare skin. She twined her fingers around the chain on his neck, pulling him closer.

McCormick's stomach growled.

Martina began to giggle, even with her mouth still covering Mark's. She regretfully broke the kiss, but continued to embrace him, tipping her forehead to meet his. She was still trying to stifle her giggles when she realized that she could feel Mark's body shaking with laughter.

"Oh, God, Marty, I'm sorry. I told you – I'm starving."

ooOoo

Ten minutes later, when they pulled into the driveway, Olivia was on the back stoop before they had barely exited the vehicle. "It's about time!" she complained. "We've been holding supper for you for ages!"

In the next instant the girl whirled around dramatically, letting the screen door slam behind her as she entered the house. Momentarily stunned speechless by the emotional display, Mark turned to Martina for help.

"Welcome to parenthood," she said, laughing at his lost expression. Then taking Mark's hand, she led him into the house.


	31. Chapter 31

_**Author's Note:**_ For those of you following this story and waiting for an update, I am SO sorry it has taken me so long. I could blame the holidays and work (and I will blame them), but I also think I have been avoiding updating because I know this story is almost done. This is the last chapter; an epilogue follows.

Thank you to everyone who has stuck around to read this story and to review! I hope you enjoyed my fanfic!

 **-ck**

*There is a flashback in this chapter. The flashback section is in **bold.**

* * *

 _ **Inheritance Tax**_ **by InitialLuv**

 **Chapter Thirty-One**

As the next few days passed, things fell into a kind of routine. McCormick would spend the majority of the day with Olivia and Martina, returning to the hotel after dinner. On most occasions Hardcastle would join Mark and the Riveras for the evening meal, although during the day he typically made himself scarce. McCormick was genuinely puzzled by his friend's forced absences, but often found he was either too preoccupied or too tired to ask the judge about his actions.

The only change in the routine (and McCormick was beginning to realize it would soon _be_ routine) were consecutive visits to the doctor. Following Sandra's advice, Mark called Dr. Lorenzo Monday morning, explaining his probable low blood sugar attack. The physician advised him to come in as soon as possible for blood work.

" _A fasting blood test would be best,"_ Lorenzo said. _"If you've eaten already, it would be better for you to come in tomorrow."_

McCormick shifted his eyes up to Hardcastle, who was standing nearby, listening without any eaves-dropping pretense.

"Uh, no I haven't eaten yet." Another snippet of advice that had come from Sandra, called out as he and the judge had left after supper the night before.

The judge drove Mark the short distance from the hotel to the medical center, and once again hung around in a waiting room while McCormick was subjected to a variety of tests, including more needle sticks, which left more bruises. Lorenzo instructed Mark to return the next day, to discuss his results. As Olivia's appointment with her pediatrician was also on Tuesday, Martina played taxi, picking Mark up at the hotel and releasing Milt from his chauffeuring responsibilities.

Martina sat in the waiting room between the father and daughter, idly looking at a magazine, as both patients fidgeted: Olivia kicking her feet and Mark relentlessly tapping his fingers.

Martina addressed the girl first. "Olivia, please stop that. It's annoying."

Olivia scowled. Making an overt gesture in an attempt to still herself, she sat on the edge of her chair and stomped her high-top clad feet flat on the floor. Today's color was white, and Mark had been surprised to see that the light-colored Chuck Taylors were still relatively clean.

Martina shook her head at Olivia's antics. She then turned to McCormick. "And you're no better. Can't you settle down?"

"What?" Mark asked. "What am I doing?"

Olivia leaned forward, to look past her mother. "Playing 'Stand By Me.' I need to teach you a new song."

McCormick self-consciously crossed his arms, tucking his hands out of sight.

A nurse came out into the waiting area. "Olivia Rivera?" she called.

Olivia and Martina rose. "We'll meet you back here," Martina said to Mark.

McCormick nodded, smiling briefly at Olivia. When the two had disappeared back into the exam area, Mark relaxed his arms and again began to tap the fingers of his left hand onto his armrest.

ooOoo

That evening during dessert, McCormick tossed his napkin aside and pulled a folded piece of paper out of his jeans pocket. With a theatrical flair, he presented the paper to the judge. "Read it and prepare to be amazed, Hardcase – I'm done riding shotgun."

The judge looked up from his coffee. "What's this?" Milt grabbed the paper, smoothing out the creases.

"Doctor's note. My blood test results were fine, and Lorenzo said everything else checked out. We even did a conference call to Charlie – he says 'hi,' by the way. They both agree the thing on Saturday was most likely a combination of fatigue and not having eaten for a while. Since then I've been doing everything by the book – I'm taking my pills, eating right – and no more dizzy spells." McCormick's face was radiant with his smile. "I've been given the OK to drive."

Hardcastle perused the note, then hmmphed. "And did you mention how fast you ride Scout, Tonto?"

Olivia paused in clearing the table. "Tonto? Don't you mean Crash?"

Mark grabbed Hardcastle's napkin, and flung it at her. " _Not_ helping."

"Maybe I'd be more helpful if you stopped throwing napkins all over," Olivia said archly.

"Fine. I'll help clear. I'm not having coffee, anyway." Mark rose, starting to gather plates and cutlery. As he took Sandra's plate, he smiled at the woman. "I can't believe that cake recipe came from that diabetes cookbook. You're almost as good a cook as Sarah, and that's saying something."

Sandra looked at Hardcastle. "Who is Sarah?"

"My old housekeeper. Although to hear McCormick tell it, her main role was to keep him fed." Milt watched as Mark carried the dishes to the sink, making sure to "accidentally" drop another napkin onto the floor at his daughter's feet.

"You had a housekeeper?" Olivia ignored the napkin, instead turning on the faucet and starting to load dishes into the sink.

The judge mumbled in the affirmative. "Two, actually."

Olivia grinned at her father. "No wonder you're a slob."

"Hey! I am not a slob!" McCormick grabbed the dish soap, squeezing a healthy amount into the running water.

"No? Just klutzy, right?"

Mark grabbed a dish towel and threw it at Olivia. The girl ducked, and the dish towel fell into the sink, immediately becoming soaked. Olivia fished it out of the sink, and wrung the water out of it – directly over Mark's shoes.

"Would you two knock it off?!" Martina stood, moving away from the table to glare at the individuals who were currently "cleaning up" the dinner dishes.

There was no planning, yet the two-pronged attack worked perfectly. Mark scooped up a handful of soap suds to throw at Martina in the same instant that Olivia aimed the faucet sprayer at her mother.

As Martina wiped the soapy concoction off of her face, the room exploded into laughter. Surprisingly, Sandra was the one laughing the loudest.

ooOoo

McCormick drove the rental car back to the hotel that night, reveling in the heady feeling that came with finally having a sense of control. It had been a week since he'd been behind a wheel. In comparison to the amount of time he'd gone without driving when he'd been incarcerated, seven days was small potatoes. But all things being relative, the week had seemed like a year.

Hardcastle had been uncharacteristically somber, and picking up on the odd mood, McCormick decided to delve into the awkward waters. He glanced over at the older man.

"Hey, Hardcastle – how come you're taking off during the day when I'm at Marty's?"

"Whaddaya mean?" The judge seemed surprised by the question. "You're trying to get a relationship going with your kid," he said, "you don't need me around for that."

Mark shook his head. "Weren't you the one saying that you wanted to get to know her, since she was gonna be a part of my life?"

"You were stuck in the hospital then," Milt responded. "Now that you're able to spend time with her, I don't want to get in the way."

"In the way? _You_?" McCormick was grinning. "Why Judge, what are you talking about?"

Hardcastle just hmmphed, as if to say "See?" Mark suddenly regretted the smart remark. He dropped the grin, becoming sincere. "Judge . . . If Olivia's going to get to know me, _you're_ part of the deal. And they all know that already, so I don't know why you're avoiding them."

"I'm not avoiding them!" the judge returned. "I've been there for supper at least four times!"

"Yeah, and then we take off," McCormick argued. "I think you should hang out with us more. Practice being a grandpa."

That remark earned McCormick a sour look. The younger man turned away, returning his eyes to the road.

And as soon as Mark's head was turned, Milt's unpleasant expression changed to a wistful smile.

* * *

As the week neared its end, Mark and Olivia got through the majority of the photo albums and scrap books. When McCormick arrived on Thursday (again alone, this time having driven himself), the girl pulled him into the family room and sat him down in front of the television. "Video tapes today," she announced, turning on the set.

McCormick glanced around the quiet house. "Where is everyone?"

"My mom and grandma are on an errand." Olivia inserted a tape into the VCR, then came to sit by her father.

Mark looked at Olivia in mild alarm. "They left you alone?"

"Oh my God. I'm almost ten." His daughter shook her head and rolled her eyes at the same time. He found himself smiling at the reaction, even as he defended his earlier question. "Well, I just meant, you know, with you being sick. . ."

"I'm fine! You heard what my doctor said!" Olivia's doctor had found no serious reason for the girl's recent fatigue, and had concluded all that was necessary was a small change in the dose of her daily medicine – confirming Sandra's hunch. "And they just left. I was alone for maybe ten minutes." She sighed noisily. "You told me you were alone a lot as a kid."

"Okay, yeah, but that was different."

"How?"

McCormick frowned. After his talk with Martina outside the restaurant, he'd been trying to reveal certain parts of his past to Olivia. She had seemed most curious about what he'd been like at her age, and he'd tried to pick and choose the least incendiary topics. Yet she always seemed to focus on facts that he'd rather not divulge. Yesterday she had peppered him with questions about Sonny, and now. . .

Olivia noticed the hesitation and the pained look. "That's okay, you don't have to tell me," she said quietly.

Mark gazed at his daughter's lowered head. The messy curls obstructed his view of her face. "Hey." He reached out to touch her shoulder. She lifted her head, turning to look at him. The resigned expression she wore made his chest feel tight.

"It was different because I had no other choice. It was just me and my mom – you know that from what I told you yesterday. And my mom worked two jobs, so yeah, I was alone a lot. Sometimes it was okay to be alone, to have that independence – but a lot of the time it was lonely. And a little scary."

"Oh." Olivia studied him thoughtfully. "Because you lived in a bad neighborhood?"

Mark shrugged. "Well, we moved a few times. Some places were better than others. But none were like here." He waved a hand.

"You mean like the suburbs."

He laughed, a little harshly. "Yeah. Little manicured lawns. Block parties. Neighbors that bring you cookies or fudge at Christmas. Doors that don't have three or four locks on them."

"But . . . the judge's house in California – it's not like that there, right? I mean, a bad neighborhood."

McCormick shook off the memories. He looked appraisingly at his daughter. "No, I guess it's not. In fact, I live in a practical paradise." He smiled, suddenly feeling lighter. "Wait until you see it."

Olivia didn't immediately answer. She settled back into the couch cushions, pulling up her feet. She aimed the remote control at the VCR.

"Wait until you see _these_."

ooOoo

McCormick had thought he had it under control, as the two of them watched the numerous sappy home movies where Olivia varied between hamming it up for the camera and being thoroughly annoyed at the camerawoman. He'd been congratulating himself on that point, proud of the fact that he seemed to be settling into his unconventional role as the "new" father of a precocious nine-year-old. He'd been surprisingly relaxed sitting there on the larger couch, laughing along with his daughter or listening intently as she described the events occurring on the screen. The girl had been leaning against him comfortably, and it had seemed almost natural.

Then Olivia put in the tape of her school's year-end talent show.

As the camera panned in on a single adult on a stage, Olivia got up from the couch and began to rummage through a shoe box on the nearby table. "That's our principal," she tossed over her shoulder. "He's pretty cool." She returned with a folded program in her grasp, and handed it to Mark as she sat down. "Here's the program. It's last year's show – I wasn't able to be in it this year." She shrugged, not needing to explain.

Mark scanned the program. There were children listed from each grade, from Kindergarten through fifth, and each had a specific talent that they were sharing: singing, dancing, playing instruments, magic, even a comedian. "A comedian, huh?" Mark asked, wondering if that was the talent he would've picked if pressed. Comedian would have probably gone over a little better than sharing his talent for lock-picking.

"Mmm-hmm, that's Frank Brandon. He's so funny." Olivia sighed a little, and McCormick gave her a wary glance. Even not having a lot of experience with kids, he wasn't blind to the girl's reaction _. She's got a crush on him. I've barely known her a week and now I have to worry about her dating._

 _Dating? She's not even ten!_

On the television screen, the principal had given up the stage to a Kindergartner who was unusually good at breakdancing. Olivia leaned back again, beginning to narrate while Mark read along in the program. They watched a first grader fight through her nerves and complete a decent ballet routine, a second grader who excelled at card tricks, another second grader who played " _Frere Jacques"_ on the harmonica, and the infamous Frank Brandon. Mark thought the boy's humor was a little lowbrow, but the kids (and a lot of the parents) in the audience ate it up, and the laughter was loud and raucous. The principal had to calm the crowd once Frank left – after a low, sweeping bow – and then he encouraged everyone to respect the next participant. A piano was rolled out onto the stage behind the principal, and when he stepped away from the microphone, Mark could see his daughter entering the stage. Maybe an inch or two shorter than her current height, with her hair pulled back in a bushy ponytail, the Olivia on the screen was wearing a casual red dress – and what looked like black dress shoes. McCormick turned to Olivia with wide eyes. "Hey! Not only do your shoes match, but they're not gym shoes!" he teased.

Olivia jabbed him with an elbow. "Stop it. Those were my church shoes. Grandma would have had a fit if I wore Converses for something like this." She gestured at the television.

On the screen, the principal was moving the microphone over to the piano and adjusting it to Olivia's height. Then the man remembered he had to introduce her, and bent awkwardly to speak into the microphone. "And now also representing the third grade, Olivia Rivera will be playing the piano and singing a Simon and Garfunkel song."

The image on the screen became blurry and then changed abruptly, as if the person with the video camera was moving. In fact, Mark could hear Martina's whispered off-camera voice, excusing herself as she finagled her way into a better spot from which to videotape. The image finally settled, and focused in, just as the first notes sounded from the piano.

Mark had read in the program that Olivia was performing "Bridge Over Troubled Water," but the easily identifiable notes still took him by surprise. This Olivia on the screen was only eight, and yet she showed no trepidation or self-consciousness as she played the intro to the song. Then, her clear, confident voice issued from the speakers on the television.

"When you're weary, feeling small,

When tears are in your eyes, I'll dry them all.

I'm on your side. . . "

Olivia's singing faded in McCormick's ears, and he swallowed audibly. He was suddenly finding it hard to keep his breathing even, and he felt like his heart was hammering in his chest. He glanced down at the curly head next to him, but Olivia was still watching herself on the screen, with a slight scowl of criticism, and she hadn't seemed to notice her father's discomfort. At least, not until the song had finished and loud applause erupted in the auditorium. Then Olivia looked up to Mark to gauge his reaction.

"What did you think? I thought I was a little rough at the start, not loud. . . " she trailed off, seeing the averted eyes and the somber expression. "Oh. That bad, huh?"

"No. No, it was . . . It was beautiful. You – I didn't know you could do that." When they had sung "Stand By Me" together, it had been a short verse and the chorus, and although he had noticed Olivia's talent then, he'd been preoccupied with playing his part of the song. But this. . . "The other day, I didn't really realize. You're terrific."

"Oh. Thanks." A slow smile spread on the young face, but soon fizzled, and confusion replaced it. "You're not acting like you liked it."

Instead of answering, Mark picked up the remote control for the VCR, and pressed the "Stop" button. He was quiet for a moment, looking at the floor as he mustered his resolve. After a sigh and a nod, he turned to Olivia.

"Livvie, we've gotta talk."

The confusion was now joined by dread. Then the girl abruptly stood, and left the room. McCormick watched the retreating form with a half-smile.

"Damn. Spitting image." _Hmmp._

Mark rose from the couch and went to find his daughter.

ooOoo

McCormick reran the words he'd used as he walked down the hall to Olivia's room. "We need to talk." What the hell was that? _Like I'm breaking up with her._

 _But that's kind of what it is, isn't it?_

Yesterday had been a full, tiring day. Hardcastle had joined McCormick and his little, unusual family, and the five of them had spent most of the day in outdoor activities, taking advantage of the comfortably mild weather. They had walked to Olivia's (and Martina's) elementary school, and then further on to the nearby middle school. The middle school had a practice football field surrounded by a decent track, and Mark and Olivia had taken part in an impromptu race. Olivia had won with ease, and had still been energetic and chatty on the walk back home. McCormick, on the other hand, had been spent, and did little to keep up his side of the conversation. Later, he had barely made it through supper without nodding off. On their return trip to the hotel, Mark had relinquished the driving responsibilities to the judge, and the younger man had planned to curl up in the passenger seat and sleep. Hardcastle had had a different idea. Mark thought back now to their conversation. . .

 **Hardcastle cleared his throat loudly, catching his weary friend's attention.**

" **Hmm?"**

 **Milt glanced away from the road. "I think it's time I head back."**

 **Mark sat up straighter, looking around at the landscape. "Whaddaya mean? We are headed back to the hotel."**

" ** _Back_. ****Home** **."**

" **Oh." McCormick laid his head back again. "When?"**

" **I called the airlines this morning, when you were still putzing around in the bathroom. Tuesday looks like the best choice."**

" **Oh. Okay." Mark nodded. "I might not have enough cash, but I'll pay you back, okay?"**

 **The judge glanced over again, this time with a furrowed brow. "Pay me back for what?"**

" **The plane ticket."**

 **Hardcastle frowned. "I don't think you're getting it, McCormick.** _ **I'm**_ **going back. That doesn't mean you have to. I came out here because you were sick, and I was worried about what kind of trouble you might get into, but we're not joined at the hip, y'know. You got everything sorted out now, and you got a good thing here with your kid. Why would you want to leave that?"**

 **McCormick shook his head. "I don't – not really. But I already told you, I've got to go home. I have things I have to take care of, responsibilities – "**

" **If you're talking about the estate, you don't need to worry about that."**

" **You want to put that in writing?" Mark gave a short laugh. "But yeah, that is one of the things. Can you imagine what the place looks like with us both being gone for a week?"**

" **That's what I've got the service for!"**

" **Yeah, I've seen what the service does. That's why I was picking up the slack after finals. And that's another thing – my grades should be in by now, and I have to make sure I have everything set up for next semester."**

 **Milt looked sharply at his friend. "You've already got that all squared away. You're not giving me any real reason why you need to come home. Listen, you stay here as long as you need – "**

" **No!"**

 **The abrupt response surprised both men, and there was a brief silence. Hardcastle slowed the car down as he took the exit for White Plains.**

 **The two began speaking at the same time.**

" **I'm sorry, Judge – "**

" **Something goin' on – "**

 **Mark leaned back, and extended a hand toward the judge. "You first."**

" **Okay. I want you to tell me what's going on with you. Why you don't want to stay here."**

 **McCormick took a deep breath, then slowly exhaled. "I . . . don't** _ **not**_ **want to stay. Does that make sense? I think I belong here. Or at least, with Olivia. But I also belong in California. And I can't decide, I can't figure out what to do. When I made the decision to come out here, it wasn't to stay. I just wanted to meet Olivia. And then things got complicated."**

 **The judge snorted, but didn't interrupt.**

" **I know there are things I have to do at home. School. The estate – "**

" **I already told you to forget about that. You're not in any shape to take care of it like you used to."**

" **Judge, I'm fine! I feel fine!"**

 **Hardcastle gestured at the steering wheel. "So why am I driving again? You were so gung ho to get behind the wheel."**

" **I'm just tired, that's all! The kid wore me out today. And she almost fell asleep at the table herself!"**

" **Yeah, because she's sick, just like you."**

" **You know, people don't have to be sick to get tired!" Mark shot back testily. "I feel fine! Okay, maybe not a hundred percent, but better than I felt after finals. I think the pills are helping, and who knows how long I had that kidney stone, maybe that had something to do with how lousy I felt. I can clip hedges, Judge . . . and weed, and clean the pool, and maybe even mow the lawn, as long as I pace myself. Just nothing really physical. Like I should probably avoid cleaning the gutters." The younger man grinned. "Getting up on a ladder? Uh-uh, that's asking for trouble."**

 **The judge turned the car onto the street that led to the hotel. "So what you're telling me is you're going to leave your kid so you can go do yardwork."**

 **Mark felt his face flushing, and was unsure if it was from embarrassment or anger. He opted for anger.**

" **What are you trying to say, Hardcase? That I gotta get a place out here, and I'm not allowed to come home? You'll ship my stuff out to me, and it'll be like the last five years never happened?" Milt shook his head, but McCormick continued. "I know everyone thought you were nuts getting an ex-con paroled into your custody, anyway. . . You might as well just chalk it all up to some sort of retirement panic and write me off."**

 **Hardcastle pulled the car into the hotel parking lot and turned off the ignition. He faced McCormick.**

" **You know, just because you don't like what I said doesn't mean you have to get ticked off at me. Unless I'm right."**

 **Mark slumped, pulling a hand through his curls. "I don't know, Judge. I just don't know. This is so hard. I really thought I had a good thing going, cleaning up my act, and going to school and all. I didn't expect a kid to come along and throw a wrench into everything."**

 **Milt smiled softly. "That's what they do, kiddo."**

" **And it's not like I wouldn't have wanted it, wanted her. I already can't imagine her not being there, y'know? I don't want to leave her, but I think I have to. I have to get away from how close this is, get some distance to think.**

" **Maybe I'll make a change, but I can't make that decision here. If I tried to decide now, with Olivia giving me those eyes. . . " Mark smiled. "Those puppy-dog eyes are brutal. If that's how I look at you when I want stuff, no wonder you let me get away with so much."**

" **I don't let you get away with anything!"**

" **Right. Sure." McCormick's face broke into a wide grin.**

 **The judge's grin rivaled the ex-con's. Then he became serious. "I'm not saying you can't come home. I just don't want you to make a decision you regret."**

ooOoo

Mark stood outside of Olivia's door, listening to the music that had started almost simultaneously with her entrance. "With or Without You," by U2. He wondered at the irony as he knocked loudly.

The music ceased, but there was no welcome to enter. Mark waited a moment before calling out softly. "Livvie?"

"What?" Surly, the one word dripping with attitude.

"Can I come in?"

McCormick was about to call out again when the door was opened. Olivia left it ajar but went back to sit on her bed, purposefully turned away from her father. Mark stepped into the room, taking a seat in the desk chair. He spun back and forth nervously as he spoke. "I thought taking off when things got rough was my move."

Olivia turned to face him. "That's what you're doing. You're leaving, aren't you?"

Mark stilled the desk chair. He looked closely at the girl. "Did your mother tell you?"

Olivia shook her head. "So I'm right." She lowered her gaze, and began to twirl a curl around a finger. "When?"

"Tuesday."

This time there was no response, just a sad nod. McCormick was surprised to find himself irritated by the emotional reaction. "Listen, Olivia –"

"Oh, it's 'Olivia' now."

Mark drew back at the caustic words. _Was I like this at her age?_ he wondered. Then: _Let's face it; you were probably worse._ He admitted, and not for the first time, that his mother must have been a saint.

Still, this way she had of grabbing onto his emotions, and shaking them, like a dog playing with a chew toy. He barely knew her – they'd met a week ago today – and she was already adept at pushing his buttons. He considered it could be her resemblance to Sandra or Martina – or hell, maybe even to Sonny – and that the things that annoyed him about those individuals could be the same things that frustrated him about Olivia.

 _Or maybe you're just seeing yourself._

"Listen." His tone was firm and a little angry, and Olivia looked up, startled. He tried to not let the wide eyes sway him. "I don't live here, you know."

"You could."

Mark shook his head with a sigh. "Okay. Let's look at it this way. What if it was reversed?" Olivia shrugged, but didn't answer. He went on. "What if your mom had brought you out to California to meet me? And the two of you stayed a while, and things were going good, like they are here? And then I asked you to stay. To live in California."

Olivia had been looking at him, but now she tilted her head slightly, looking away. McCormick grunted softly, seeing that he'd gotten through.

"And maybe you'd want to stay. Maybe it would even seem like the right thing to do. But you'd have to leave your home behind. Your neighbors, your friends, your school – your grandmother. How would that feel?"

Olivia crossed her arms. "I dunno," she mumbled.

"I think you do. Just because I'm an adult, it doesn't mean those things don't matter to me. My school, my doctor, my life right now – it's in California. I have to go back." He paused, then spoke softly, almost to himself. "Yeah, I could live out here. And maybe that isn't such an unreasonable request. But I have things I'd have to figure out first. . . "

Olivia's face had transformed. It was shining with hope, and the grin was a full-wattage McCormick special. Mark looked back uneasily. "And I'd have to talk to your mom, and your grandmother, and – and – well, it wouldn't be immediate – it might not work – "

His daughter sprang off her bed to throw her arms around him in a grateful embrace.

Slightly confused by what had just happened, Mark welcomed the hug. He attempted to return it, but Olivia soon drew back. _Still a little prickly_ , he thought.

The girl's earlier grin had softened into a hesitant smile. "So, should we finish watching the talent show?"

"I don't know if we need to." Mark shrugged. "You won, didn't you?"

Olivia made a face. "Second place. There was a fifth grader who taught her deaf dog to do tricks using sign language."

McCormick raised his eyebrows. "Really? Wow. No wonder she won. Yeah, let's go watch it. I gotta see that – Ow! Bruises!"

Olivia left her room, bounding back to the family room. Mark followed more slowly, rubbing his arm where the girl had smacked him.

* * *

Once Hardcastle and McCormick had settled on their departure date, the days seemed to mesh together into events that were going too fast (the amount of time Mark was able to spend with Olivia and Martina) and too slow (the plodding, creeping, countless minutes until he and the judge returned home). Olivia and Mark finished going through the scrapbooks and photo albums, and viewed most of the video tapes. On Saturday night, Sandra stayed home with Olivia so that Mark and Martina could go out for dinner. Dinner led to drinks (for Martina; Mark abstained from alcohol not only because of the dietitian's advice but also because he was driving), and drinks led to conversation, first in the restaurant and later while sitting in the car at a nearby park. When the car got too cramped, they left its confines to amble along the banks of a small river, hand-in-hand. And not long after that, the conversation gave way to a more intimate type of interaction.

It was past two a.m. by the time Mark and Martina made it home, yet they were still talking animatedly as they entered the back door, the long day and late hour prompting their punch-drunk behavior. It wasn't long before a sleepy but wide-awake Sandra appeared in the kitchen, and she scolded the couple, saying that their giggling and loud whispers were bound to wake Olivia. If Sandra noticed that McCormick's shirt was buttoned wrong or that Martina's skirt was on backwards, she didn't mention it.

Because it was so late (or so very early), Martina encouraged Mark to spend the night, and set about finding some sheets and pillows for the couch. McCormick was hesitant about sleeping over, even on the couch. "Hardcase is probably wondering where the hell I am," he said, looking warily at Sandra.

The woman waved off his concern. "Call him and tell him you're staying here. It's late, and you really shouldn't be driving all that way with no rest. Anyway, we have Father's Day plans in the morning."

"Oh. Yeah, right." Mark grinned, and this time it wasn't over-tiredness that prompted the wide smile. _Father's Day_. He still hadn't gotten used to the tinge of excited pride every time he heard the name of the holiday.

Martina returned to the family room, linens in her hands. Her skirt had been re-positioned, and as she passed Mark she nodded at his shirt. " _Buttons_ ," she whispered.

McCormick's hand strayed to his chest, and he felt the area where his shirt puckered around the mis-buttoned section. He locked eyes with Martina, and his grin turned sly.

ooOoo

Father's Day was another perfectly blue-skied, mild day. McCormick awoke stiff and sore, but unusually content. Even when Hardcastle arrived – by taxi – and was griping loudly as soon as he entered the door, it did little to dilute Mark's cheer. "I don't know why in the hell I paid to rent a car, if you're just gonna let it sit in the driveway here, and make me take a cab."

"I'm sorry, Judge."

Milt quieted, looking suspiciously at his friend. After a moment, he shook his head. "I guess it made sense for you to not drive back so late. But you coulda told me that you were going to do that earlier, instead of waking me up at three in the morning." He didn't mention that he'd been awake, waiting for McCormick's return.

"You're right. I mean, I didn't know the night was gonna go so late, but I'm sorry for waking you up." The apology sounded sincere, but the smile that accompanied it showed Mark suspected he hadn't interrupted the judge's sleep at all.

Hardcastle tried another suspicious look, but it fell flat in the delivery. "Well, all right," the older man mumbled. He handed McCormick his duffel bag. "Fresh clothes. Go change."

ooOoo

The group of five went out for a late breakfast. Mark was roundly feted, even receiving a free meal from the restaurant, and he was slightly flustered by the attention. He'd never really had a day when he'd been personally celebrated in this fashion. He didn't count his birthday, as for most of his life that date had brought about feelings of loss and anger, rather than enjoyment and happiness.

Olivia shared her itinerary for the day as they were finishing their meals, and the next stop was mini-golf. Milt and Sandra sat at a picnic area and chatted while Olivia and her parents putted their way through eighteen holes. Olivia won. Bowling followed the mini-golf, and Milt and Sandra sat in the scoring area, continuing their chat as they watched the family of three bowl. This time, McCormick won.

The rest of the day was somewhat low-key, as everyone recovered from the earlier activities. Mark and Martina especially enjoyed the lazy afternoon, as they were both still feeling the effects of their extended date the night before. McCormick was nestled comfortably in the larger couch, Martina sitting next to him with her head on his shoulder. Both were half-dozing when Olivia approached with a small wrapped package. She held it out to her father.

"Um, this is for you."

Mark looked up, puzzled. "What? I already got a gift." He nodded down to his feet, clad in brand-new black Chuck Taylor high-top sneakers.

Olivia lifted her shoulders in a quick shrug, and McCormick could see in just the small gesture that the girl was nervous. He sat up straighter on the couch, taking the package. As he started to unwrap it, he realized Martina was now awake and alert, watching closely. Turning his head, Mark saw that Sandra and Hardcastle were standing behind Olivia, also watching and waiting for the reveal.

Feeling slightly nervous himself, McCormick finished ripping the paper from the package. He found he was holding a small velvet jewelry box. Opening the box, he saw it held a religious medal, attached to an expensive silver chain. Unlike his St. Jude medal, this one was oval, not round. And the saint that was pictured. . .

"It's St. Olivia." Olivia spoke just as Mark read the words on the medal. Before he could comment, she went on, talking fast. "It's sort of from all of us. Grandma came up with the idea, Mom found the store in the city, and the judge was kinda the final vote on what you'd like best, you know, like gold or silver or whatever." She paused to catch her breath, then asked, "Do you like it?"

Mark lifted the medallion out of the box, letting it rest on his palm. He swallowed, trying to force down the lump in the throat. He could feel four pairs of eyes on him, and he knew they were all waiting for his response, but he couldn't think of the words to accurately express what the "group project" gift meant to him. He took a breath, feeling his body tremble with the inhalation.

"It's – it's too much."

"Oh, cost too much?" Olivia guessed. "I dunno. I spent most of my money on your shoes, so mom helped me buy that."

Mark looked at Martina. She smiled and shrugged.

Olivia watched her parents exchange quiet glances. She shuffled her feet anxiously, then asked Mark again, soft and hesitant: "So . . . do you like it?"

McCormick turned back to his daughter. Just over her head, he glimpsed Sandra's face, and the apprehension on it.

 _Her idea? This was_ ** _her_** _idea?_

When Mark spoke, he wasn't looking at Olivia. Instead he looked directly at Sandra.

"It's perfect," he said.

ooOoo

It wasn't until after supper, when Martina, Olivia, and Hardcastle were trying to settle on a videotape to watch (both adults were trying to talk the girl out of _Back to the Future_ ), that McCormick was able to speak privately with Sandra. She was in the kitchen, putting away the dinner dishes, when he approached her.

"Sandra?"

The woman turned from the cabinet. "Oh. Mark." Her tone was slightly off-putting.

Mark tried to not let her reluctance sway him. He pressed on.

"Olivia said this was your idea?" He indicated the St. Olivia medallion, now around his neck.

Sandra didn't answer; instead, she bypassed the question. "Martina's really to thank for it. She was the one that found it; St. Olivia medals aren't as easy to find as well, St. Joseph or St. Christopher, for example."

"But you came up with the idea. You suggested it."

Sandra moved to the table, sitting in a chair. After a moment, Mark followed suit. He stared at the woman and waited.

"It was my idea. I know how attached you are to your necklace, how it's a connection to your mother, and I thought that you – "

"Wait," McCormick interrupted, "how do you know that?" Then he pursed his lips, swearing softly. "Damn it, Judge."

Sandra shook her head. "Milt didn't tell me."

"Then how – "

"I remember, Mark."

Mark's hand went inadvertently to his pocket, where he'd tucked his St. Jude medallion. It was the last gift he'd received from his mother. She'd gotten it for his fifteenth birthday, although in the confusion and preoccupation of her illness, they hadn't celebrated his birthday until early July. He'd opened the box containing the medallion while sitting at the side of her hospital bed.

"I didn't realize you knew," he said.

Sandra nodded. "And I hoped that this one – " she gestured at the chain around Mark's neck – "would connect you to Olivia the same way. No matter where you are."

Mark smiled, finding that he liked the thought. "That's really nice, Sandra."

"I _am_ nice."

McCormick laughed out loud.

"Okay," she relented, "maybe not always with you. I'll admit I've been a little hard on you."

"A little?" Mark gasped as he fought to control his laughter.

Sandra sighed in disgust, although Mark thought the disgust was aimed more at herself than at him. "It's habit, I guess," she said. "Or maybe a defense mechanism. I have a lot to apologize for when it comes to you, and the guilty conscience brings out my – what does Olivia call it? – my 'snarky' side."

Mark was looking down at the table top, suddenly sober. "I know all about guilty consciences," he murmured. He lifted his head and attempted to smile. "I know you've been trying. I appreciate it. And I really like the gift." He pressed his fingers against his chest, feeling the outline of the medal through his shirt. "Thank you."

"You're welcome."

The quiet conversation was broken by a call from the family room. "Hey, kid, where are ya? The movie's about to start!"

McCormick stood. "Gotta go. I've been summoned." He started toward the family room, then stopped and turned back. "Wait. I had another question for you. About that clipping you gave Olivia. The one from my first win."

Sandra ducked her head, not meeting his eyes. "What about it?"

"Well, that was a good five years before Olivia was even born. So you must have had it that long." When Sandra didn't disagree, McCormick went on. "And I know I wasn't that big of a deal to be in papers up here. I mean, not then."

"But maybe in Georgia?"

"Georgia?" Mark repeated. "Yeah, sure. Alabama, Georgia. . . What does that have to do with anything?"

"I have a friend who lives in Georgia. She sent me the clipping."

McCormick nodded, smiling slightly. "Aunt Carole. Olivia mentioned her."

"That's right," Sandra confirmed. "I actually knew about your first win before Martina did."

Mark stared, considering the implications. Not only had Sandra had a friend of hers watching the sports section for his name, but she'd kept that newspaper clipping to herself, for years, not even sharing it with her daughter.

To him, it sounded like something that an ashamed, remorseful person might do.

 _The same ashamed, remorseful person who'd told your daughter you were dead._

The outrage surged without warning, and a hard tone bled into his voice. "If it was so important for Olivia to know who her father was, why did you have to kill me off?" _Damn, and we'd been having such a nice talk._

Sandra didn't return the anger in kind. In fact, her demeanor was calm and composed.

"Mark, she was barely four. And you'd been in trouble, been arrested. . . Weren't you still in prison then? Six years ago?"

"You might know that now, but you didn't know then." McCormick glared back moodily. "Why don't you admit you were never going to tell her about me? That the only reason you did now is because of the PKD?"

"Maybe you're right," Sandra conceded. "Maybe we would have told her when she was older, and let her decide on her own if it was worth it to track you down. Maybe we never would've told her." She looked steadily at the angry young man across from her. "But does it really matter now?"

Mark was jolted by her last statement, as he remembered he had said the exact same thing himself.

Hardcastle suddenly appeared at Mark's side. "Didn't you hear me? Your kid's getting antsy!"

"All right, all right." McCormick began to follow the judge, then looked back at Sandra, still sitting quietly at the table. After a thoughtful pause, he moved back into the kitchen, standing beside her and extending a hand.

"Come on. Let's go watch a movie."

* * *

On Tuesday, it rained. It was the first bad weather since Mark had arrived in New York, and the grey, gloomy day fit his mood entirely.

After returning the rental car and condensing their luggage (McCormick had crammed his backpack into Hardcastle's suitcase, so that all he'd have on the plane was his duffel bag), the men went about the various airport check-in procedures. Hardcastle checked his suitcase, the two procured their tickets (Los Angeles by way of a stop in Chicago), and after a trip through security, the group of five eventually gathered in the seating area near the gate.

Olivia had been unusually reserved the entire morning, and as Hardcastle and McCormick said their good-byes, she stood close to her mother, looking sorrowfully at the floor. Out of the corner of her vision, she saw the judge shake hands with her grandmother and accept a kiss on the cheek from her mother. He then bent down to her level. "Hey, honey, take care of your mom and grandma, okay?" he said.

Olivia didn't answer, but she nodded minutely. The judge ruffled her hair, then rose. When he had moved from her sight, Olivia could see her father and grandmother hugging. For a moment astonishment replaced her unhappiness.

After moving away from Sandra, Mark turned to Martina. Olivia backed up a step, watching as her parents gazed at each other.

McCormick and Martina took each other's hands. Neither spoke for a moment. Finally Mark sighed deeply. "I don't know how to do this. How to say good-bye."

"Then don't." Martina squeezed his hands. "It's not really good-bye; it's more like 'See you soon.' It's not like we won't be seeing each other for ten years this time."

Hardcastle sidled over near the couple. "C'mon, McCormick," he murmured. "Flight's boarding in a few minutes. Just kiss her and get it over with."

Mark broke into a grin. "Well, if you say so, Judge." He pulled Martina closer, and the two met in a soft, deep kiss. McCormick lost track of time, and was genuinely surprised when Hardcastle cleared his throat and Martina reluctantly pulled back. "What?" he muttered in irritation.

"They just called our flight. Let's go."

Mark glanced back at the judge, then drew Martina into a quick, tight embrace. When they parted, he looked at Olivia, standing at Martina's side. "Livvie. Hon, I've got to go."

Olivia looked up briefly, then lowered her head. "Okay. Bye."

"Olivia. . . "

"McCormick!" Milt had moved to the ticket desk near the jetway doors. "Time to go!"

"Okay!" Mark called back. He gave his daughter one last, dejected look, then turned to follow the judge.

McCormick had almost made it across the jetway threshold when Olivia broke away from her mother, running toward her father.

"Dad! _Wait!_ "

Mark turned back, letting his duffel bag fall to the floor. He dropped to his knees and opened his arms as Olivia ran into them. She buried her head in his shoulder, crying. "I love you," she sobbed.

Mark held her close, stroking her hair with a shaking hand. He felt tears trying to break through, and blinked in a vain attempt to stop the flow. He pulled an arm away from Olivia, and wiped a hand across his eyes. Then he sat back on his haunches, holding his hands lightly on Olivia's shoulders. He forced a smile.

"I love you too, kiddo."

* * *

 _ **Author's Note:**_ "Bridge Over Troubled Water" (1970) is by Simon & Garfunkel. Written by Paul Simon.

 **-ck**


	32. Epilogue

**_Inheritance Tax_ by InitialLuv**

 **Epilogue**

Once the men boarded the plane and found their seats, McCormick automatically took the window seat. He shoved his duffel bag under the seat before him, then sat down heavily and faced the window. He drew his arms tight across his chest and stared out at the rain falling on the tarmac.

Hardcastle regarded the desolate figure for a few seconds, until the line of passengers behind him forced him to sit down. Settling his carry-on on his lap, he fiddled with the handles momentarily before he spoke.

"Are you all right?"

"No." Mark spoke without turning. "I just did maybe the hardest thing I've ever had to do in my life."

Hardcastle nodded. "I understand that. But you said – "

McCormick gave Hardcastle a sharp look. "I don't want to talk about it. Okay, Judge?"

Milt nodded again. "Sure."

McCormick turned back to the window. He slumped down in his seat, drawing up his legs. "Wake me up when we land in Chicago," he said, then closed his eyes.

ooOoo

Hardcastle had pulled a paperback western out of his carry-on, and after listening respectfully to the flight attendant's emergency procedures spiel, he cracked the spine and started reading. By the time the plane had taxied off the runway and taken flight, he was well into the third chapter.

"You read that already."

Milt held up a finger, finished the paragraph he was on, and then dog-eared the page and closed the book. "So? I like it." He looked side-long at McCormick. "Thought you were going to sleep."

Mark shook his head. "I can't stop seeing her face. The way she was crying. . . If we hadn't already been at the airport, I probably never would have left New York." He sighed softly, then looked seriously at his friend. "Judge – I'm really sorry about your son. I don't think I really understood before what – Well, I mean, I still can't, but I think now I know a little more. . . But I don't mean to compare this to – Oh, damn it."

Hardcastle waved off the jumbled words. "I get it, kiddo." He gave McCormick's shoulder a brief squeeze. "Thanks."

Both men were quiet for several minutes. McCormick's hand tracked up to his neck, and he rubbed the St. Olivia medal between his fingers. Hardcastle turned back to his book.

The silence was broken by another sigh from McCormick. Hardcastle lowered his paperback and waited.

"Do you think I did the right thing, Judge?"

Milt rubbed his chin thoughtfully, also giving a sigh. "Well, you know, I've been thinking about that since we had our talk. You do have stuff you need to take care of at home. Whether you decide to stay or move. You were right about that." He held up a hand and started to tick things off on his fingers. "You need to see Charlie, for one." He lifted a second finger: "You need to make sure your grades came in, and that everything's on track there." A third finger: "And maybe you can figure out some way to pay Teddy back." Mark made a face that was a mix of embarrassment and resignation. The judge grunted at his friend's reaction before continuing. "So if you're asking about leaving your kid so you can come home and get yourself sorted out . . . then yeah, I think you made the right choice."

Mark nodded slowly. He leaned back in his seat, turning his head to again gaze out the window.

"Then why does it feel so wrong?"

* * *

 **THREE YEARS LATER . . .**

Olivia moved onto the grass, slowing from a sprint to a walk. Breathing heavily, she bent over and placed her hands on her knees. The St. Jude medallion around her neck slid out from the neckline of her shirt, and swayed back and forth lazily.

Less than ten seconds had passed – closer to five seconds, really – before Ari Haynes arrived at her side, also puffing with exertion. Ari lifted her hand for a high-five. Olivia slapped her five.

"Damn, Flash," Ari said once she had caught her breath, "you left me in the dust. You left us all in the dust."

Izzy Kinsman came loping across the field to join the sprinters. As Izzy's relay event was still to be held, she was fresh and full of nervous energy. She grabbed her teammates, one arm across the shoulders of each girl. "We are gonna rule the roost when we get to high school!" she crowed. Lowering her arms and backing up a step, she focused on Olivia. "You have to join relay, Flash. With you in the mix we'd clean up."

"Yeah, maybe next year." Olivia shrugged, glad that her friend had at least stopped demanding to know why she wouldn't try out for the hurdles. She didn't return Izzy's gaze, as her eyes were now taking in the crowd. Olivia scanned the spectators sitting in the bleachers and milling around the edges of the track field.

Izzy noticed her friend's distraction. "I don't see your dad, Olivia, but isn't that your grandpa over there?" She pointed toward a section of the stands.

At the word "grandpa" a single name floated through Olivia's head. _Sonny?_ But as she looked in the direction Izzy indicated, it wasn't a certain aging lounge singer she saw, but instead, a certain retired judge.

"Yeah, that's him," Olivia answered with a smile.

ooOoo

After the medal ceremony, Hardcastle and Olivia made their way through the crowd to each other. Milt pulled the girl into a proud hug. "You looked good out there," he said. "Although it's no surprise that you'd be good at running around fast in circles."

"It's an oval."

Hardcastle laughed, then gestured at the two medals around Olivia's neck – gold for the 200 meter dash, silver for the 400. "And you got a few more additions for your trophy shelf."

Olivia viewed the silver medal with distaste. "I should have won both sprints." The girl's mouth pulled down in disappointment. It was remarkably similar to the expression Milt had frequently seen on McCormick's face that first month after his diagnosis, when the younger man had felt like he wasn't pulling his weight with the chores around the estate.

Even as he admired Olivia's competitive spirit – another thing that was so like her father – Hardcastle lightly admonished her. "There's no shame in second. It gives you something to strive for at the next meet."

Olivia snorted, prompting the judge to frown.

Both he and McCormick had been thrilled when Olivia had found a non-contact sport that she not only enjoyed, but also excelled at. There were times in the last two years, though, when the father and daughter would become too focused on the gold medal count. It was then that Milt felt he needed to be a voice of reason. "And I don't think you should get so obsessed with winning every time, anyway," he said, looking seriously at the girl. "It's middle school track, not the Olympics."

Olivia lowered her head in embarrassment. "I know. I'm sorry, Pop." Then her eyes narrowed in confusion, and she looked up in slight concern.

"Where's Dad?"

Milt had been expecting the question, but he still wasn't happy delivering the answer: "The hospital."

Olivia's concern increased tenfold. "What? When? How long?"

"A couple hours, maybe." The judge answered vaguely, jiggling a hand back and forth. "That's where I was, before I came here. I guess it's been a little longer now," he confessed.

Olivia's curls bobbed as she shook her head. "Why didn't you call or something? I'm sure the school would have let me leave early."

"It's not like you could _do_ anything, you know." Milt himself had found that to be the case. He'd wanted to be in the hospital with his friend, at the very least to offer moral support, but had soon realized he was basically in the way. It had almost been a relief to leave when McCormick had asked him to attend Olivia's track meet in his stead.

"I could be there!" Olivia sighed angrily, then waved a hand out at the rapidly emptying track field. "We didn't have to stay for _this_."

"Oh, yes, we did. Your dad gave me specific instructions. He didn't want you to miss your meet."

"The stupid track meet isn't important!" Olivia said, her voice rising. "It's not as important as – "

Hardcastle broke in. "It's important to him." Olivia tried to sputter a response, but the man spoke over her complaints. "Listen, if he tells me to do something, I'm gonna do it." This time Olivia just raised her eyebrows in disbelief. "Okay, okay," the judge acquiesced with a grin. "If he tells me to do something where _you're_ concerned. No matter what kind of shape he's in or what's going on in his life, he's still your dad. I can't overrule his decisions."

"Even if they're dumb decisions?"

Hardcastle looked at the girl in exasperation. "You know, the more time you waste arguing about this, the longer it's gonna take us to get to the hospital."

Olivia's contentious expression cleared completely, and was replaced with gratitude. "Okay, great! Let's go!" She bypassed the judge, heading in the direction of the school parking lot.

"Hang on, you're not going like that!" Olivia paused, looking back inquiringly. Milt gestured at her uniform. "You gotta go change."

" _Po-opp_. . ."

"Don't whine. Go." Hardcastle made shooing gestures at the pre-teen. "Show me how fast you are, Flash."

Olivia sent a very McCormick-like dirty look at the judge. Then she turned and jogged briskly toward the locker rooms.

ooOoo

When the two of them arrived at the hospital, Milt thought back on his flippant comment about Olivia's speed, and how it was now biting him in the ass. He'd been expecting the girl to settle into her normal post-race lethargy, but apparently her nervous anticipation had overcome any fatigue. Olivia was out of the vehicle before the judge had killed the engine, and was hastily scanning the directional signs in the hospital lobby when Milt finally made it in the doors. "Third floor," she said, heading quickly toward the elevators.

"I know that – I was here already, remember? You need to slow down, kid." Milt was finally able to catch up. As he was still roughly a foot taller than the twelve-year-old, he had a longer walking stride.

Once they reached the elevators Olivia punched the "Up" button, then pushed it a second time just to be safe. The girl bounced on the balls of her feet, watching each set of doors and grumbling impatiently. "We could take the stairs. . . "

"Olivia. Calm down. Things were fine when I was here. Everything's going to be okay."

The doors on one of the elevators opened, and Olivia rushed in. She looked up at the judge as he followed her inside.

"Do you promise?"

ooOoo

Milt led the way down the hall to the correct room. The door was nearly closed, but not latched, and before the judge pushed it open, he looked sternly at Olivia. "Slow and quiet, okay? People sleep in hospitals."

Olivia nodded, suddenly reticent. She hung back as Hardcastle entered the room, calling out softly, "Hey, kiddo, it's us."

Mark's voice answered, equally soft. "Yeah, come on in." The judge had taken a few steps forward when McCormick jerked his head slightly to the side, in the direction of the hospital bed. "But quiet, though. She's sleeping."

After a relieved glance at the woman resting quietly in the bed, Olivia looked back to her father, who was sitting in a rocking chair near the bedside. His dress shirt was wrinkled, with the sleeves pushed up haphazardly. His tie was missing, presumably shoved into a pocket, and his suit coat was hanging on the back of the chair. And in his arms, he was holding . . .

Mark grinned up at the girl. "You can come closer, Livvie." At the same time, Hardcastle gave her a little push.

Olivia stepped up slowly to the chair, her eyes glued on the bundle cradled in her father's arms. Once she was in front of him, Mark tilted his arms, pulling the blanket away enough so both his daughter and the judge could properly see.

"Olivia," Mark announced formally, "I'd like you to meet your brother, Benjamin C. McCormick."

Momentarily speechless, Olivia stared into the swaddled blankets at the tiny pink form with the smattering of dark hair on its head. The baby yawned, and Olivia smiled in wonder at her brother.

"Hiya, kiddo," she said.

 _ **END**_

* * *

 ** _Author's Note_ : **_Thank you_ to everyone who read and reviewed. Thanks so much for sticking with me!

 **-ck**


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